


fool me once, fool me twice

by princessoftheworlds



Series: fool me once, fool me twice [1]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Aliens, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Immortal Ianto Jones, M/M, Other, Post-Audio 03: The House of the Dead, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Series 03: Children of Earth (Torchwood)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24309952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: When, after the events at the House of the Dead, the Rift spits Ianto out on an alien planet a thousand years later, so begins a goose chase that will take him across the universe and across time until he finds Jack again.
Relationships: Ianto Jones/Other(s), Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness/Other(s)
Series: fool me once, fool me twice [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819213
Comments: 290
Kudos: 226





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellskitchensmurdock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellskitchensmurdock/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Ainsley! This is your second present, and I love this! 
> 
> I came up with the idea of the Rift tossing Ianto across time and space and then he looks for Jack, and Ains suggested a Partners In Crime scenario where Jack and Ianto keep missing each other. So blame them for this!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic! It's gonna be multichaptered but I have no rhyme or rhythm about how I'm gonna write and post the rest of this lmao.

_ A thousand year's time, you won't remember me. _

_ And I love you, too, Jack. Right then. Best get a move on. Goodbye, Jack! _

* * *

**3009**

**Brileia**

**Ianto**

To an outside observer, there is a lush strip of purple silky trees. Then the air between the trees starts to ripple in a haze of golden energy as time and space split apart. Out of the invisible gap stumbles a young human male. Tall, broad-shouldered, and well-built. Short dark hair, crystal blue eyes, sharp cheekbones and angled but youthful features. He’s wearing a black pinstripe suit with a white shirt and red tie and practical boots.

To Ianto Jones, first there is dark stillness, and then everything explodes into  _ being _ . He pitches forward and catches a glimpse of purple trees. His brow creases. His last memory was saying goodbye to Jack in the House of the Dead, but then the crease in his brow becomes more pronounced as all of a sudden he can recall laying in Jack’s arms in Thames House and weakly begging Jack to remember him for a thousand years. 

This isn’t the House of the Dead in Cardiff. This isn’t Thames House either. In fact, those purple trees exist nowhere on Earth.

Exhaustion crashes into Ianto like a freight train, too much for his fragile new body to endure, and he slumps forward to the ground, twitching. Then he doesn’t move again.

* * *

**3009**

**Brileia**

**Jack**

Captain Jack Harkness takes one sip of his cocktail, and then his eyes widen as the flavor explodes across his tongue. Sour and spicy but with a tangy sweetness, it tastes like nothing he’s ever had before and leaves behind no aftertaste besides a clean feeling in Jack’s mouth and the faint memory of lemons. Of course, the genuine lemons that Jack enjoyed for over a hundred years on Earth have gone extinct, and synthetic or hybrid lemons are rare and expensive, not to be found in a Brileian bar, no matter how exclusive.

“Delicious,” he tells Brigg, the bartender, who especially mixed the drink for him. Brigg smiles, showing their brilliant white smile. “I’ll be sure to miss your drinks when I’m off.”

Brigg pouts. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you to stay? Free drinks for the rest of your life?” They’re half-Brileian and half-human, their father a human colonist who settled on Brileia, and have the most shimmery silver skin Jack’s ever seen, which he loves pressing kisses into and watching Brigg blush a kaleidoscope of colors. 

_ Oh _ ,  _ Brigg _ , Jack thinks sadly,  _ I’d put your bar out of business if you tried that _ . 

He’d originally come to Brileia a decade ago as a researcher for the most recent incarnation of the Torchwood Institute, living in Brileia’s capital city. Brileia had few humans besides the couple of colonists like Brigg’s father scattered across the planet, so they didn’t really have much idea about human biology and the fact that Jack should have aged a lot more in a decade. Jack’s duty for Torchwood here has already ended, but he’s stayed a few weeks extra for Brigg. They’d met at a nightclub six months ago and had a loosely-defined relationship.

Jack likes Brigg, but he doesn’t think they’re worth staying here much longer for. He hasn’t found someone like that in hundreds of years, someone who he would stay with and be willing to build a life with. 

Not since Ianto.

“I’m sorry, Brigg,” Jack says finally. He knows he sounds pleading and helpless, and thankfully, Brigg nods.

Their pale eyes are shadowed with sadness, but they put on a brave face and offer Jack a smile. “I understand, Jack. I thought I would regret it if I didn’t try.” They hum nonsensically for a moment. “Shall we leave? We don’t want to be late for the opera. If tonight’s your last night, let’s make some memories together.”

* * *

**3009**

**Brileia**

**Ianto**

With a deep, bone-rattling gasp, Ianto awakens, panting as he launches upwards, and someone screams.

“ _ What _ ?” Ianto says rapidly, breathing hard. “What happened? Where am I?” A beat. “Where’s Jack?” His tone becomes more and more panicked.

He’s laying in some kind of bed, and when he sits up, gaze roving around the sterile white tiled room, shrill alarms start going off.

The scream came from a humanoid figure with beautiful silvery skin and jewel-colored eyes collapsed on the floor. They are gazing at Ianto in horror, and when he speaks, they begin babbling in a language that sounds like musical chimes. Quickly, they rise to their feet and scurry out of the room through a doorway Ianto hadn’t noticed previously, still babbling.

Moments later, a new humanoid figure, skin a similar silver, comes inside and approaches the bed. The alarms cease, and Ianto, who had been gingerly sliding off the bed, stiffens.

“Hello,” the figure,  _ the alien _ , Ianto realizes with a spike of alarm, says in stilted English, “my name is Nereida. You may address me femininely.”

“ _ What in the world _ ,” replies Ianto. Then, quickly, he regains his composure and realizes his manners. “Apologies. My name is Ianto Jones. Where am I?” Belatedly, another thought occurs to him. “And when?”

“Greetings, Ianto Jones,” Nereida tells him, bowing slightly. “You are in a medical facility on Brileia. It is 3009.” Her expression creases with confusion when she states the year. “You were found in a local park.”

3009? Ianto last remembers it being 2009. Or, well, 2010 by the House of the Dead. He was right in his initial assumption that he traveled across time and space. 

He can hear his own words echoing in his ears -  _ A thousand year's time, you won't remember me _ \- and he swallows down the growing lump in his throat. It’s time to compartmentalize. “What happened to me, Nereida?” he asks politely. “Why do I require treatment?”

Nereida’s jewel-colored eyes glance around the room shiftily. “You died. According to our scans, Ianto Jones, you are a human male, and although there are not many humans on Brileia besides the few colonists, I know that humans do not come back to life. No one does.”

Ianto’s blood runs cold at Nereida’s words. He came back to life? That would make this the second time he died. Third if the House of the Dead is counted. And all three times he’s come back to life.

_ Am I like Jack now _ ? he thinks, and even that thought causes a painful stab of sorrow through his heart.

His brain moves rapidly, debating his next moves. “How come I can understand you, Nereida? If there are only a few humans on Brileia, I am assuming that not everyone speaks English.”

“You are astute, Ianto Jones.” Nereida smiles, showing off neat white teeth. “I am wearing an universal translator.” She points to a small golden dot placed in the hollow of her throat. Ianto had previously mistaken it for jewelry.

“Right, thank you, Nereida.” He nods. Then: “I’m sorry.”

In a flurry of motion, he launches forward and uppercuts Nereida’s jaw. He must still be regaining control over his body, because he hits Nereida with more force than expected. No wonder Jack stumbles around like a baby bird for a bit after he comes back to life. 

Nereida tumbles backwards and smacks her head against the tile. She slumps back, twitches once or twice, and then doesn’t move again.

Ianto’s pulse quickens. He kneels down besides her and checks her pulse and breathing. Good. Unless Brileians’ physiology is immensely different from that of humans, she’s still alive. Quickly, he swipes the golden dot off her throat, worms a finger between the collar of his shirt and skin, and sticks it below his own throat.

Then, he jumps to his feet and sprints out the room’s doorway, emerging in a long white hallway. Alarms shriek over a crackling speaker, and there are panicked cries and orders shouted over the alarms, but they are in an oddly musical English that Ianto credits to the universal translator.

Two Brileians emerge on the far end of the hallway, thicker and more built than Nereida and the original Brileians had been. Guards, Ianto realizes. 

Thankfully, Ianto is closer to the end of the hallway where there is a large window that opens outwards. He dives for it; he must have been on the ground floor of the facility, because his feet hit solid dirt in seconds. He stumbles briefly, finding his balance, before sprinting down an empty alley.

Ianto emerges into a large marketplace filled with silvery-skinned Brileians and many,  _ many  _ stalls where vendors hawk colorful goods that are as simplistic as woven baskets, jewelry, or cloth or are complex Brileian technology that Ianto doesn’t have time to make heads or tails out of.

_ Tosh would have enjoyed this, figuring out what the technology is _ , thinks Ianto sadly. 

He’s the only human in this marketplace, and before the Brileians can notice him or the guards from the facility can find him, he secretly grabs a long blue cloth from a stall, quickly ducking behind the next one, and wraps himself in it. One end goes to cover his head like a hood until he’s fully robed. 

Then he slows down a bit to look like a speculative shopper.

He’s alive and on an alien planet, a thousand years after he was born. His friends are long dead, and Ianto only knows one person who would still be alive now. Well, two, but Ianto doesn’t count the Doctor as his friend.

He has to find Jack. And to do that, he has to get off this planet.

* * *

**3009**

**Brileia**

**Jack**

The opera is brilliant, the actors singing in the gorgeous, lilting musical language that Jack has become fluent in.

He loves the Brileian opera and has found no other art form on this planet that comes close to it, although he has had the time to experience it all. He’s lived a peaceful decade here and died a number of times that Jack can still count on both of his hands.

By the time the opera is over and the curtains fall, the singers’ final note still ringing through the silent theater, Brigg’s cheeks are damp, a lone tear making its way down their face. Jack doesn’t know if they’re crying from the emotion of the music or because it’s their last night with Jack. In fact, he would prefer not to know; the only way he can go on from planet to planet, lover to lover, life to life, is by not looking back at everyone he leaves behind. It’s better than them leaving him behind.

“Shall we?” He offers an arm to Brigg, and together, they stride out of the opera house. He can still feel the wake of his greatcoat flapping behind his legs despite the fact that he hasn’t actually worn the coat in  _ years _ . He carries it with him, puts it on from time to time, but never for too long. He doesn’t want to damage the last gift Ianto gave him.

Jack and Brigg eat an excellent dinner of native Brileian fish and fruits at a restaurant that is a favorite of Jack’s. All the while, he watches how the glowing lights dance over Brigg’s iridescent skin. They really are gorgeous, and Jack will regret leaving them but not for too long. Soon, he’ll have found another Brigg. It makes him sound fickle, but that is the life of an immortal.

After they leave the restaurant, Jack pauses on the street and then drags Brigg into an alley, pushing them against the wall. He proceeds to kiss them within an inch of their life and then release them, allowing them to fall back, panting. He doesn’t say anything like  _ I will miss you  _ or  _ I wish I could stay _ , because that would simply just be not true, but he does tell Brigg, “I like you. I like this.”

Brigg’s eyes glow with joy, the sadness that has been there all evening briefly flickering away. “Where shall we go now?” they ask. “We could go to the nightclub where we first met.”

“Or we could go to yours,” says Jack, tracing a gentle line over their cheek with his thumb, “and block out the rest of the world for a bit. Have it be just you and me.”

And that's an appeasement they were clearly hoping to hear. Their lips stretch into a wide smile. “I like your suggestion better.”

Jack’s delighted laugh echoes down the crowded street.

* * *

**3009**

**Brileia**

**Ianto**

For a moment, Ianto thinks he hears an incredibly  _ familiar  _ laugh, and his heart quivers, but he doesn’t look behind him for fear of drawing too much attention.

He keeps moving forward, wading through the crowded street, heading further away from the marketplace and more into what quickly begins to resemble a city. There are restaurants, bars, clubs, and shops all around him, their signs translated into English. A bit beyond that, tall towers, their sides lined with crystalline windows, stretch towards the sky. There are two moons on Brileia, something that quickly begins apparently as the hours pass and the light begins to fade. 

Ianto takes shelter in the mouth of another alley, angling his body in the blanket of the shadows. His stomach has been rumbling for about an hour, and he’s beginning to feel faint. Jack was always ravenous after he came back to life.

With a jolt of alarm, Ianto realizes that he’s now been comparing everything he does to what Jack used to do after he came back to life, as if he is now like Jack. That thought causes dread to churn up in his stomach, and he is briefly no longer hungry. 

For Ianto, it’s been hours since he’s seen Jack, hours since he said goodbye to the man who is, essentially, the second love of his life after Lisa. Before that, it’s been a day and a few hours since he died in Jack’s arms. A week ago, the Hub had still been intact.

For Jack, it’s been a thousand years. Ianto doesn’t even know if Jack still remembers him, and if he doesn’t, Ianto hopes that he can remind Jack, because Jack is his best chance of surviving this second, or rather third, chance at life he’s gotten. Or of going back to his own time, if he even can.

His stomach starts to grumble again as Ianto regains his appetite, and he looks at the crowd passing by him on the street. He observes as several Brileians juggle leather pouches in their hands and pay open stall street vendors with black chips in exchange for what Ianto presumes to be food.

Slinking back into the street, Ianto jostles a Brileian who swears at him. When he reaches out to steady the Brileian and himself, he uses his other hand to discreetly slip his victim’s pouch from his belt. He uses a bunch of fabric from the Brileian’s voluminous tunic to tuck a bulge into his belt; it should mimic the pouch’s weight and delay the Brileian’s realization that he’s been robbed. 

Moving quickly, Ianto strides away and waits until he’s at least several streets away until he approaches one of those open stalls. “Whatever is cheapest on your menu,” he tells the vendor and shoves a handful of chips at them. He doesn’t have the time to try and figure out the Brileian currency system.

When the Brileian passes back what is essentially meat on a stick on a plate with diced cubes of pink, Ianto hurriedly takes it with a polite nod and disappears down the street. Then he ducks into another alley - his newfound favorite place in the universe - and gingerly picks up the skewer. Once he discovers that the meat is fine and slightly spiced, and that the cubes are some kind of sweet fruit, he wolves it all down.

He emerges from his alley feeling a bit more energized. One thing he knows about big cities from both Cardiff and London is that tourists flock to bars and nightclubs, and if he’s in a Brileian city like he presumes, a nearby bar or nightclub should be flocked to by non-Brileians, so he shouldn’t look entirely out of place for a human.

Ianto continues downwards until he spots a handful of red-spiked Vocci - a species he recognizes from files at Torchwood London - entering a bar with colorful flashing lights. He follows them, lowering his hood as he slips inside the bar.

He approaches the bartender who nods at him. “Don’t get too many humans around here,” the Brileian says. “Well, there is a regular. I don’t know if he’s with you.”

“Oh,” replies Ianto, curiosity and hope spiking. Would it be too much to ask for another human, even if it’s not Jack? “Is he here now?”

The Brileian shakes their head. “No, apologies. He slipped out earlier with our bartender Brigg.” A beat. “I don’t think he’s sticking around much longer.”

Ianto’s shoulders slump. “Oh, alright.” It was worth a try. “I’m new to the city, and I just wanted to orient myself. Which direction are the transmats in again?” When the Brileian’s light eyes spark up, he feels a spark of triumph that he was actually correct with his guess about Brileia having transmats.

“The transmats are in the city center,” they explain. “If you head south, you’ll reach the giant fountain that you should have seen once you arrived. The transmats are right next to it.”

“Thank you,” Ianto says and heads out of the bar.

* * *

**3009**

**Brileia**

**Jack**

Panting, Jack flops back onto the bed, Brigg falling back beside him. “That definitely burnt off the calories from dinner,” he says, chuckling in between gasps, his chest heaving. He’s still coasting on the euphoric high of his recent orgasm.

Brigg turns on their side, sweat glistening on their iridescent skin. They bite their lower lip, drawing Jack’s attention with the movement. He scoots closer across the silk of the bed and presses a gentle kiss to the hollow of their throat before brushing their lips together again.

“I’m going to miss this,” they say, head ducked towards Jack. He steels himself for a plea -  _ Don’t leave me; stay with me _ , but Brigg surprises him by simply sighing. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget you, Jack Harkness.”

Smugly, Jack smirks, knowing that it makes him a bastard that Brigg’s words go straight to his ego. “That’s the plan!” 

Brigg rolls their pale eyes. “Oh, your ego, Jack. I don’t think the universe could forget you.”

“I don’t think the universe ever plans to let me go,” Jack admits, his own words striking a chord of genuineness within himself he usually covers, but he leaves it at that. 

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” Brigg tells him, smiling and shaking their head. “Ready for round two?” They waggle their eyebrows in a move learned entirely from Jack.

Jack runs his fingers over the planes of Brigg’s face, over the curve of the nose they got from their human father. He pecks their lips once more and nuzzles closer, enjoying the smooth and sweaty glide of their skin against his. Finally: “Actually,” he says, “I would like to go to the roof. I want to see the city at night.”

It’s no Cardiff, but he would like to see the city, and planet, he called home for about a decade one last time.

Raising a critical eyebrow, Brigg leans into Jack’s warmth, pressing their own kiss to his jaw, before sliding out of the bed. They attempt and fail to tug their silk blanket out from underneath Jack, pouting at him. Jack laughs but rolls over a bit, freeing the blanket until Brigg can wrap it around themselves. He himself grabs another blanket from the bed and tucks it around his waist; he has no problems with his own nudity, but Brigg has previously insisted that he avoid scaring their neighbors.

Together, they climb to the roof. Despite there being many stories to Brigg’s tower, most Brileians are actually wary of heights, so they tend to remain undisturbed. Jack sits at the absolute edge, legs dangling over the open sky, and Brigg, after their usual few minutes of hesitation, perches slightly behind Jack.

“Look at this,” Jack tells Brigg, gesturing to the Brileian skyline. “Look at how beautiful it all is.”  _ I’m going to miss it  _ goes unsaid. 

Brileia’s two moons hang low in the silver sky, close enough to touch. The city stretches on around them, several towers nearby and the lights of the nightlife glittering below them. Dotted between the alleys of streets of businesses are parks of purple trees. Beyond the edges of the city is the sea of frothy gold waves. The entire planet glitters like a jewel.

Brigg’s plush lips part, and they begin to sing a beautiful melody to rival that of the opera singers. Their voice lilts out into the open sky, and the hair on Jack’s bare skin rises. Brileian songs have always managed to evoke the unique sensation of melancholy and pure euphoria in him. Brigg’s song reminds him of being in love, the dual agony of loving and being torn away, and he has a faint inkling of their reason for singing.

Ignoring his slight guilt, Jack continues looking out over the city, his eyes damp.

* * *

**3009**

**Brileia**

**Ianto**

Morning light creeps too unfairly into the cramped alcove where Ianto has temporarily taken up residence. He groans, blinking up blearily towards the lip of the alley where all that’s visible is empty street. Slowly, he inches to his feet, smooths out his clothes as he redrapes his cloth, and stumbles out into the street.

It’s early enough the only people out are vendors setting up their stalls and Brileians making their way to bigger businesses. Ianto waits for a vendor to flicker on the sign that proclaims that their stall is open before once again purchasing the cheapest meal. 

This time, he gulps down the same pink fruit and some kind of frothy green drink before returning the dishes back to the vendor. The drink was faintly bitter and reminded Ianto of dark chocolate.

Abruptly, he remembers Myfanwy, and a brief wave of sorrow descends on him as he realizes that she must have perished in the Hub explosion. But now is not the time to think of what he’s lost. Now, he must focus on Jack.

Feeling refreshed, Ianto quickly makes his way down the street. According to the bartender from last night, he has to reach the city center to find the transmats, and he can’t be too far from there.

* * *

**3009**

**Brileia**

**Jack**

When morning breaks throughout the large windows of Brigg’s room, Jack sneaks from their bed and returns to his dwelling. He lives on the other side of the city in a low-lying house, and it takes him an hour to reach there. Most of the furniture came with the house, so he drags out the battered trunk from between his bed and lifts out his few possessions. He slips on his greatcoat, slides the Webley - now too old to even be considered an antique - into its holster, and slides the rusting tin into his pocket. 

The tin holds his most precious momentos: a faded picture of his entire Torchwood Three team, and another of solely Ianto, a scrap of Ianto’s favorite red tie, a digital chip of other pictures from throughout the last thousand years. 

_ A thousand year's time, you won't remember me. _

Then, he leaves the house he’s lived in for a decade and heads towards the city center. He doesn’t know where he’ll go next, but he guesses that he’ll choose at random when he reaches the transmats.

* * *

**3009**

**Brileia**

**Ianto**

As Ianto moves through the streets, he becomes aware that he’s drawing weird looks from the Brileians around him. No one else is as fully cloaked as Ianto, and he can’t afford to risk exposing himself, not when he’s so close to getting off this planet.

He quickens his pace a bit, heart beginning to pound. He has no idea exactly how far he is from the city center or how much closer he’s getting, but the city around him is starting to transform from newer towers to older, shorter buildings and wider spaces. The street beneath his feet changes from gravel to brick or cobblestone.

Abruptly, he passes through a familiar large courtyard-like space and feels a spike of alarm. He’s in the marketplace he had emerged into yesterday. Which means that the medical facility cannot be too far away. The guards could still be looking for him.

Adrenaline begins to thrum through his veins, but Ianto forces himself to maintain his brisk stride. He doesn’t want to move any faster for fear of giving himself away.

After he passes a few more streets of shops, his gaze is drawn by a tall, two-tier rounded structure covered in decorative carvings and stone features. A stone flower in the center spews frothy golden liquid that washes down to accumulate in the basin of the second tier. 

This must be the fountain the bartender was describing, Ianto deduces, because right next to it is a narrow building with sleek lines and reflective walls that looks a bit strange in this older part of the city. A large sign at the front declares the building to house the transmats. 

Ianto hangs back around the fountain for about an hour, observing how Brileians and other aliens enter the building. There doesn’t appear to be any documentation required. Visitors pay a small fee of black chips. Ianto manages to separate out his estimation of the cost from his stolen leather pouch. 

Finally, when he’s waited long enough, he lowers the hood of his cloth and approaches the entrance. He pays the fee and is directed inside by a bored-looking attendant. 

Inside the building are rows and rows of black squares that stretch on from either end of the building. Visitors are guided to stand on a square, and an attendant types their destination into a side panel before the visitor disappears in a fade of white light.

He feels a lump in his throat, and a sort of hazy panic descend on him. Ianto hasn’t thought this all the way through. So far, his only plan has been to find the transmats and then to find Jack, the details for both of which are incredibly shaky. He doesn’t even know what galaxy he’s in or where he can go; he has no destination in mind.

Then, in a break of his hazy state, Ianto hears an  _ incredibly familiar  _ voice, one that he last heard a thousand years ago but really two days ago: “ _ Destination _ ? Hmmm. New York. Earth. Haven’t been there in what feels like hundreds of years.” Then, there’s the same familiar laugh, confident, booming, and able to spend a shiver down Ianto’s spine.

It’s Jack. Jack’s here. Jack’s been here all along, and Ianto didn’t know it.

With barely a spare thought, Ianto bolts in the direction of the voice, ignoring the alarmed cries of the other visitors and attendants. His aim is solely that voice; he needs to reach Captain Jack Harkness.

Then he gets his first view of  _ him _ . Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing the same greatcoat over his uniform of blue shirt, braces, and trousers, though the style and cut looks a bit more futuristic. Brown hair just a bit longer on top, sparkling ocean-blue eyes, that same  _ damned  _ charming smile. Looking just the tiniest bit older, the tiniest bit different. Slightest graying around his hairline, a few more wrinkles and laugh lines.

It’s Jack, and Ianto is just a few inches too short when he steps onto the transmat platform. He wants to call out for Jack, but his shout gets stuck in his throat at the sight of him. 

The attendant types Jack’s destination into the side panel, and there’s a beep. The transmat glows with white light, and Jack’s image starts to blur. Ianto skids to a halt in front of the transmat, and for a brief moment, he’s staring straight at Jack Harkness, but Jack doesn’t see him. Then, Jack’s gone.

Ianto lunges for the attendant. “ _ Take me to him _ ,” he demands. “ _ Send me where he went _ .”

“But-” the attendant stutters, shimmery skin flushing. Ianto shoves an uncalculated handful of chips towards them, and they nod.

Quickly, Ianto steps onto the transmat where Jack had been just moments earlier and watches as the attendant types his destination into the side panel. The transmat begins to glow beneath his feet, and there’s the slightest sensation of every inch of his body quivering uncontrollably. Then the world flares and flashes white around him as he follows Jack across the universe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ianto's arrival in New York City doesn't go as expected. Jack decides to delay his visit to Torchwood New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2! So I've kinda figured out a plot and posting schedule for this. I'll probably be sticking to Thursdays. Enjoy! Thanks to Kai for editing!

**3009**

**New York City**

**Jack**

The world rights itself in a blur of color and life as Jack arrives at his destination milliseconds after he left Brileia. Briefly, he feels an odd sense of unease, imbalance, like he left something behind, but he pats himself down, finds everything exactly where he placed it, and shrugs. He glances around him.

Ah, Ellis Island. Almost a thousand and a hundred years after it was established, and the island is back to welcoming visitors to New York.

Here, Jack was shot through the heart and came back to life for one of the very first times of the rest of his very long life. And almost thirty years later, he had his psychic immigration papers stolen from him by an Italian pickpocket named Angelo, the same man who would betray Jack and leave him to be tortured and bled and inadvertently cause the Miracle.

His brow furrows. Angelo is a distant memory in Jack’s mind, erased by time and other, better memories. He was just one of many lovers Jack had. There’s been so many of them, and although Jack never forgets them, only the remarkable stick out. John Hart. His first wife. Lucia.  _ Ianto _ .

Jack shivers. There it is again, the odd sensation that he’s forgotten something, but he cannot tell what. 

Instead, he sets his shoulders and steps off the transmat. Just as he had in 1927, he joins the queue of other new arrivals streaming towards the exit and waits. When he reaches his turn at the front, the human attendant asks dully, “Name?”

“Captain Jack Harkness,” he replies, bouncing slightly, and gives the attendant his best grin. To his amusement, the attendant straightens up and sparks to life, gazing back at Jack with interest.

“Previous location and purpose of your visit to New York?”

“Brileia,” Jack says. He feels only a flicker of sadness at his mention of his former home. “And business.” His grin widens. “And of course, pleasure.”

The attendant flushes. “Identification?”

“I think you find that I don’t need any.” Then Jack rattles off the Torchwood identification code that supersedes any other city or country authority. 

The attendant types the code into his scanner, and whatever result he receives causes his eyes to widen. “Of course, sir,” he says. “Welcome to New York City.” He offers a smile. “Have a nice day.”

“Oh,” Jack tells him, chuckling, “I plan to.”

He strolls out of the Ellis Island center and takes the hover-bus to the city until his boots actually come in contact with Manhattan soil. The sun is shining brightly overhead through the artificial atmosphere, and Jack enjoys the warmth on his skin despite how much he misses real sunshine. Humanity and Earth may have recovered from the global warming and other crises of the last hundred years, but if Jack recalls his history correctly, it’s only temporary.

As he strolls through Central Park, enjoying the synthetic nature, Jack settles underneath a hybrid tree, stripping off his greatcoat and folding it into his lap. He doesn’t want to get any grass stains on it and have the ghost of Ianto come back to kill him.  _ Again _ , there is no breeze out, but he still shivers!

Jack raises his wrist and peels back the leather flap of his vortex manipulator before recording his message: “It’s me. Guess where I am?” He barks a laugh. “Finally made it to New York City. Which, of course, means that I’ll be coming to see you.”

He allows his gaze to wander around the park, eyeing all the attractive humans and other species milling about. It’s been about a century since he’s visited Earth and about two since he visited New York, but it seems that humanity will always come outside for good weather.

“Well,  _ eventually _ ,” he says for the recording. “You did ask me to meet you, but I’m going to have a good time before you drag me in. Torchwood can wait.” He pauses for a moment. “See you soon, director.”

* * *

**3009**

**New York City**

**Ianto**

When the world rights around Ianto, he doubles over, panting. He wants to puke. The transmat beam may have faded, but his disorientation and nausea haven’t.

The thought of Jack grounds him slightly. He doesn’t have time to waste; he has to follow Jack, catch up with him. He straightens up, slowly coming to grips with his churning stomach, and glances around. He’s no longer at the transmat center in Brileia. He’s someplace new. 

The building he’s in feels modern and familiar based on its structural style, which means that it must be over a thousand years old, or at least built to resemble something out of the twenty-first century. Like in the Brileian transmat center, the building is lined with rows and rows of transmat squares, each with its own attendant and side panel.

A sign plastered across one wall of what looks like brick proclaims the building to be the Ellis Island Transmat Center. Ianto stares at the words for a moment, wondering why they seem slightly out-of-focus before he realizes that they must actually be in English. The universal translator must be struggling to translate the words that Ianto’s brain already knows, causing some kind of feedback loop. He toys with the idea of removing it but ultimately decides not to. 

The center is split into a departure section and an arrivals section, where Ianto is. All around him, new arrivals are stepping off their transmats and heading to the left, and abruptly, he realizes that he’s been standing here still for a few moments, thinking, like an idiot. He could have already lost Jack’s trail.

Stepping off his own transmat, Ianto follows the new arrivals into the queue, heart sinking as he realizes that there isn’t a sign of a familiar brown-haired head anywhere. No flash of the dramatic greatcoat. No booming voice that fits in so well here with the other American accents.

_ I lost Jack _ , Ianto thinks and is surprised that he can remain so calm at that thought.  _ Jack’s already gone _ .  _ Probably into the city _ .

He needs to follow Jack, but finding him in a city the size of New York, which has to have grown exponentially larger since 2009? Ianto’s heart skips a beat. But he can do it. He can find Jack. He survived Canary Wharf. He snuck Lisa into Torchwood Three and kept her alive for months, right under Jack’s nose. He won’t rest until he finds Jack Harkness.

With newfound determination, Ianto waits in the queue until it’s his turn at one of the counters. 

“Name?” the attendant asks with a bored air.

Ianto doesn’t know why he hesitates briefly, but then he finds himself blurting out, “Ifan Harper.” He cringes.  _ Sorry, Owen _ .

“Previous location?” The attendant still hasn’t looked up from the screen of her scanner.

“Brileia,” replies Ianto, shoulders tense. He just needs to pass this checkpoint, and then he can get into the city and figure out his next moves.

“Purpose of your visit to New York?”

“Uhhhhhhhhh.” This finally draws the attendant’s attention; she glances up from her scanner and arches an expectant eyebrow, looking thoroughly irritated with the proceedings at hand. Finally: “I’m looking for someone, so I guess, business?”

The attendant nods, tapping away at her scanner. Then she looks back up again. “Identification?”

"Um, I'm sorry, what?" 

This time, her annoyed expression becomes more pronounced. "I'll need to see proof of identity, Mr. Harper."

Ianto swallows roughly.  _ Great.  _ "I don't have any," he admits.

The attendant sighs. "Well, then. I'm sorry," she tells Ianto, "but you won't be allowed to enter New York then. You'll have to wait until you can be processed by one of our immigration officers before we can return you to Brileia." She points to one side where several bulky humans in sleek black armor wait, armed to the teeth with futuristic weapons.

“ _ You don’t understand _ ,” Ianto cries, losing his composure and slamming his hands down on the counter. The attendant flinches, alarmed, and a moment later, Ianto swiftly lifts his hands as they begin to tinkle. Abruptly, an energy barrier flares to life between them, and he rears back. “ _ I need to get into the city _ .”

Around them, there are squawks of panic and murmuring from the other arrivals. Ianto ignores them.

“Sir,” the attendant begins, looking nervous. “I’m going to have to ask you to calm down.” She offers a hesitant smile. “Our immigration officers will escort you to their office.” She glances away, and Ianto follows her gaze. Several of the armored humans have caught wind of Ianto’s noise and are making their way towards them. “Please do not resist. You will make it harder on yourself.”

“ _ No _ ,” Ianto protests. “No, no, no, no.” He inhales raggedly, panic beginning to clog his throat. Adrenaline floods his veins. “I need to get to the city. You don’t understand. I have to find-” He cuts himself off. He has to find Jack. He needs to get out of here. The immigration officers are drawing nearer and nearer.

In slow motion, his eyes move towards the exit point beyond the counters where visitors are slipping outside. No one’s guarding it.

His heart thumps. He’s gotta go, and he’s gotta go now.

He peels away from the counter and sprints towards the exit; he doesn’t know what security precautions are actually there, but he’s going to take his chance. 

Behind him, the officers charge after him. There’s about five. One pulls their gun and aims it at Ianto, taking a shot. Some kind of advanced bullet whizzes past Ianto. The next one strikes the ground inches away from his feet, and he whoops an unexpected laugh. You’d think that security professionals in 3009 would be trained better.

Visitors around him are screaming and ducking as Ianto leaps over several signs. He’s gaining ground on the exit, and in another minute, he can barrel through it.

A bullet barely clips his shoulder as he ducks sideways in time. 

His foot is inches away from crossing the exit threshold when an energy barrier ripples in front of it. Ianto tries to skid to a halt, but he is at full momentum now.

Ianto doesn’t know if it’s a bullet that hits him or the barrier that he collides with, but there’s a flare of instant  _ agony  _ that spreads across his body. Then he dies.

* * *

**3009**

**New York City**

**Jack**

Jack needs a drink, and luckily, in New York City, there is a bar on nearly every corner. So he picks one at random and wanders in, nodding and smiling at the patrons as he approaches the bar.

The one thing about bars and drinking culture Jack appreciates is that they'll never go out of style, especially on Earth. And bars, nine times out of ten, will always have attractive bartenders, like the one wiping down this bar. She has darker skin, hair a golden brown color that offsets her skin nicely, and pretty rose-colored lips that stretch into a smile to reveal brilliant white teeth when Jack takes a seat before her. Green cat-like eyes that are just a tad too bright and ears a bit too pointed are the only indications of any alien ancestry. 

“What can I get you?” she asks Jack as she drops the wet rag she was using to the sleek bar counter with an audible  _ plop _ . Her eyes are even more eerily beautiful up close, Jack decides.

Jack hums in reply, setting both elbows on the counter and leaning forward. “Your signature drink,” he tells her, smiling to reveal his own brilliant white teeth. “And also, your name?”

She tosses her head back and laughs, a sound like a thousand tiny bells ringing. “You have a tall order. You’re lucky you’re pretty.” She brushes hair from her face, tucking a few locks behind her ear. “My name is Anthea, and I’ll get right on your drink.”

Enchanted, he watches as she turns away and reaches for various bottles. With graceful movements, Anthea pours very specific amounts into her cocktail shaker and sets to work. As she moves around the bar, Jack admires the elegant curve of her bar and her skilled artistry.

He’s taken several courses in drink making and bartending, especially back at the Time Agency. It was also a skill that came in handy as a con man; sitting someone down with a specially-crafted drink made them unusually eager to spill their secrets. Still, half the recipes Jack knows require hypervodka, a liquor which won’t be created for another thousand years, at least.

Anthea turns back around to face him, the drink placed on the back counter and hidden by her body. She leans forward towards Jack. “The price to receive your drink is your name.” She winks at him.

“Captain Jack Harkness,” he tells her, offering her a causal salute. “At your service.” He winks right back. “May I have that drink now?”

“Do you always use your name as a pickup line?” Anthea asks, mostly composed aside from the color blooming on her cheeks. Jack chuckles; he likes her and tells her so, receiving a smirk for his troubles. Nonetheless, she places his drink before him: pale liquor in a cocktail glass with a lemon peel. “It’s a vodka martini,” she says excitedly. “Also called a Vesper martini. It was the fictional drink of choice of this ancient fictional spy named-”

“James Bond,” Jack finishes, voice hoarse and throat suddenly shy. “From the mid-twentieth century and the twenty-first century.”

Anthea eyes him speculatively. “Yeah,” she replies. “You really know your stuff. James Bond is very niche. I only know about him because my parents were obsessed.”

“Yeah,” echoes Jack. “I had a lover who was also obsessed with James Bond.” He watches a bit of the spark of interest die in Anthea’s eyes; mentioning another lover while flirting, especially during a first meeting, is always a big no-no, but Jack can’t bring himself to care. 

_ He’s kissing a gentle trail down Ianto’s navel, sucking mouth-shaped bruises here and there, when he stiffens. “ _ Jones, Ianto Jones _ ,” he says suddenly, lips curling into a mischievous smile. _

_ Ianto had previously been laying down, sighing and hissing whenever Jack bit down, but now, he lifts his head and glances down. “Yes, that is my name.” _

_ “ _ Bond, James Bond _ ,” Jack says in an English accent. “ _ Jones, Ianto Jones _.” He smirks at Ianto. “I’m on to you.” His smirk widens. “The introduction, the suits, the signature drink...you’re a James Bond nerd.” _

_ Ianto sighs again, but this time it’s in exasperation. “And, Jack? I haven’t hid it, ever. There’s a whole row for Ian Flemming’s novels in my bookshelf; you just blocked it off with the sofa because you wanted a better view of the telly.” _

_ Jack pouts at Ianto, and then his smile quickly returns. “Bet you get all the Bond girls and guys,” he teases, hissing when Ianto lightly smacks him on the head. _

_ “There’s only one Bond guy I’m interested in,” Ianto tells him, “and I’ve been trying to get his mouth on my cock for a while.” And then, he twines a hand through Jack’s hair and tries to tug his head between his legs. Jack complies, grinning widely. _

“-Jack?”

At the sound of his name, he glances up, mind still lost in memories of Ianto. “Sorry, what?” He shakes his head and refocuses his attention. “May I try it?” He smirks at her, trying to reignite some of the spark from earlier, but he’s lost interest, and she can tell.

Sighing, she moves further down the bar to continue wiping the counter. “Go for it,” she tells him. “Tell me what you think.”

He takes a sip of the martini, and as expected, it’s delicious. Slowly, he finishes off, thoughts still wandering.  _ Damn _ , but what’s with today, of all days, to get constant reminders of Ianto Jones, who died over a thousand years ago? Jack misses him - he really truly does; he’d loved Ianto, but what can he do? He can’t bring him back, not that Jack didn’t try. He’d known that something was different the moment he’d woken back up after Thames House; something in the universe had shifted, and it’s never shifted back since. Until the odd sensation of imbalance he’s been feeling today. What is the universe trying to tell him?

“So?” 

Anthea is looking at him expectantly.

“It’s damn tasty,” he says, “but you knew that already.”

She smiles proudly. “Course I did.” She doesn’t hesitate: “I’m the best bartender on this block.”

“Speaking of which, are there any hotels on this block?”

* * *

**3009**

**New York City**

**Ianto**

There is cold steel all around Ianto when he gasps back to life, and he shivers uncontrollably. Then quickly, panic floods in, clogging his throat and sending adrenaline thrumming through his veins. His last comprehensible thought had been aiming for the exit in the Ellis Island Transmat Center and then unbelievable agony. Then darkness.

_ This is the fourth time I died _ , he realizes.  _ Was it this constant for Jack _ ? He’ll have to ask the next time he sees him. If he ever sees him 

There is still darkness all around him, and Ianto’s heart skips a beat. He’s trapped in an incredibly narrow, cramped drawer, barely able to turn to either side - not that he doesn’t try. He can guess what happened after he died; those officers likely tried to get rid of his body, so it’s quite possible that he’s in a morgue. 

_ Calm breaths _ , he thinks.  _ Keep it together, Ianto. You can have your breakdown later _ .

The breathing doesn’t help. His world goes dark and hazy again, and he must faint, because he wakes up laying on a cold metal slab, naked when he’d at least been wearing clothes earlier in the drawer. There’s a man in a lab coat standing above him and typing on a tablet. He doesn’t notice when Ianto opens his eyes and flinches at the brightness.

(The man types a few more notes onto his tablet and turns around, setting the tablet on a counter and shuffling through several high-tech surgical devices. Behind him, there’s a quiet  _ hush  _ sound, and before he can face the body on the slab again, a small rounded barrel is pressing into the back of his head. 

“Don’t move,” a stern baritone orders him, words tinged with an old-fashioned European accent.

There was no one else in the morgue besides him, leaving only one answer for who his attacker could be. “You were dead,” the man says hysterically, hands lifting high. “I put you in the drawer myself!”

The voice snorts. “You didn’t take a pulse afterwards.” A pause. “And you also shouldn’t leave weapons within reach. You never know who could end up in a morgue.”

“I was examining it!” the man protests. “I needed to know what to write on your autopsy report.” He swallows roughly. “What do you want?”

“Clothes, for one,” his attacker says. A moment later: “And your wallet.”)

Outside in the New York sun and wearing loose-fitting casual clothes of synthetic fabric, Ianto feels only the slightest guilt for terrorizing the morgue assistant.  _ I wasn’t actually going to shoot him _ , he reasons and abruptly realizes that his voice of inner conscience sounds a bit like John Hart, which reasonably alarms him.

Well, there will be time to dwell on that later. Right now, it’s time for next steps. He’s lost Jack, but also, he’s back on Earth, and the hope that rises in him at that thought almost drowns out the Jack-induced sorrow. 

One thing humanity was always good at was accumulating information, voluntarily or even involuntarily. If Ianto wants to make heads or tails of his new situation and present, he’ll need information. He was a junior researcher at Torchwood One, among other things depending on the day and Yvonne’s mood; he’s got this. 

And the best place to find information in a big city like New York is a local library.

Luckily, it only takes about ten minutes and a hover-bus to reach the last remaining branch of the New York City Public Library. Ianto pays the visitor’s fee and requests to access their public archives from the twenty-first century. “Little history project,” he lies. “Trying to trace back my family tree.”

Ianto’s left alone in a room with a thin tablet like the one the morgue assistant was using, an inch thicker than a sheet of paper. He’s almost afraid that he’ll snap it in half when he turns it over. He gulps and then begins to type into the library’s search database. The first name he types is his own.

Ianto Jones, born August 19, 1983 to Glenda and Daffyd Jones in Cardiff. Died in September 2009. One older sister, Rhiannon Davies, née Jones. It lists his primary and secondary schools, but there’s no occupational history after he turned twenty-two, which is around when he joined Torchwood. His body is buried in the same cemetery where his mum and dad are.

This sends him spiralling down a brief existential crisis, because if there’s a thousand-year-old grave in Cardiff with the dead, decomposing body of one Ianto Jones, what is this body? Where did it come from?

Next, he searches Rhiannon and her family, and his mood lightens a bit when he discovers that although Johnny passed away about a decade prior, his sister lived late into her nineties. David and Mica went to university. Mica became a scientist and married her longtime girlfriend. David became an architect and married a colleague. Both gave their first-born sons the middle name of Ianto after their dead uncle.

Smiling, Ianto goes on to search Captain Jack Harkness and also Torchwood. As expected, both enquiries have no results, and his smile grows. Jack loves being all mysterious.

Gwen Cooper-Williams had a daughter named Anwen several months after Ianto’s death. Gwen and Rhys had another son almost ten years later. They both went on to live long lives and died several months shy of each other in their nineties. At some point in the late 2010s or early 2020s, Gwen returned to the Cardiff police, which Ianto notes with confusion. 

Martha Jones had already married Mickey Smith before Ianto died, but they had a son named August. They too lived long lives, which is odd considering both were technically alien-hunters.

Ianto swallows down the lump in his throat, realizing how much of his friends’ lives he missed out on. How much of his family’s lives he missed out on. When he was dying in Jack’s arms, he’d thought that at least he was trying to save David and Mica, and Gwen’s baby. Now, knowing that they lived and he still came back to life, he feels cold. He’ll never be able to go to his world again, as far as he knows.

Now, he has some information about his past, or rather, what should have been his future, but he still doesn’t know much to help him find Jack. Thankfully, he has one last plan left. He’s going to go straight to the source of Torchwood. Meaning, he’s going to Cardiff.

* * *

**3009**

**New York**

**Jack**

Torchwood New York is housed in a tall skyscraper of silver steel and sleek windows. Jack thinks it’s ugly. It reminds him too much of Torchwood One before Canary Wharf. But alas, he’s no longer in charge. The Institute doesn’t listen to him unless they need to send him on missions. Or unless there’s an alien invasion. Then they always come crawling back. 

“Got a meeting at nine with the director,” Jack tells the receptionist after he rattles off his Torchwood personnel code. “Let her know that I’m here, won’t ya?”

The receptionist glances up at him coolly. “It’s ten,” she tells him. “You’re over an hour late.”

“Don’t you know?” he calls back as he heads towards the elevators. “I know how to make an entrance.” His greatcoat swishes around his legs. He’s only wearing it today to make a point with the director, and then, it’s back to a shorter leather jacket. The Captain Jack Harkness that Torchwood knows has become a costume that Jack dons from time to time, but he honestly doesn’t mind, because he knows that the moment he wants to - or needs to, he can swoop back in and assume his role as the leader of the Torchwood Institute again.

The elevator travels at light-speed and takes Jack to the director’s top floor office in milliseconds. He doesn’t bother knocking at the door and barges straight in. “You summoned, Ellie?”

“Elaria,” Elaria Matthews, director of Torchwood New York, corrects him as he strolls in and takes a seat on the edge of her desk. “And really, you should be calling me Director Matthews, Captain.”

“Potato-potahto,” replies Jack, immediately picking up a round metallic thing from her desk. He begins to fiddle with it. “What galaxy-ending catastrophe do you need  _ me  _ for?”

She sighs. She’s never been particularly enamoured with him, especially with the many times she’s been forced to check in with him on Brileia. Then, she fills him in on his new mission. Apparently, someone on a lunar Earth colony in the galaxy over has been messing with Sontaran technology, and there’s new disastrous results. They need someone to clean it up. 

When Matthews is done speaking, she glances up at Jack expectantly, and he shrugs. “No biggie. I’ll have it cleaned up in under a week. Then I’m thinking I’ll take a sabbatical. I’ve heard wonders about the pleasure planets of Orsino recently.”

Matthews rolls her eyes. “Do whatever you need.”

“I’ll leave in a few days,” Jack tells her, rapping the wood of the desk with his fist. “Wanted to take a quick trip to Cardiff and look around. For old time’s sake.”

Her gaze becomes stern. “I’m afraid I can’t have that. The situation on the colony has become exceedingly worse, and it’s not going to get any better. We need you there ASAP.” Her voice hardens: “There’s nothing for you in Cardiff, not anymore. So get a move on.”

* * *

**3009**

**Cardiff**

**Ianto**

It takes Ianto a few hours of pickpocketing and a few more on a hover-train until he finally reaches Cardiff. He could have used a transmat, but according to his research in the library, all transmats, off-planet and across planet, require identification while other modes of transportation do not. He didn’t want to end up back in a morgue. 

The hover-train station is near the bay, so he walks from there to the Plass. He is surprised to find it almost exactly the same. The water tower is gone, and the Millenium Center has been replaced by a tall, sleek tower, but there are still pedestrians all around. 

Nostalgically, he walks to where the tourist center once stood. It’s now just a smooth walkway. He touches the ground with his fingertips and frowns briefly. 

Everything is gone. It’s like Torchwood Three, the one Ianto knew, was never here. He doesn’t know if there’s a Torchwood here anymore, but it’ll certainly be different. 

He has one last hope left. 

Ianto goes to stand on the paving stone where the invisible lift had once been. It should have been destroyed in the blast, but he’s hoping that Torchwood rebuilt itself. That there’s something still there. At least, that’s what he could theorize while reading over some history of Cardiff in the 2010s.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there. The perception filter must exist, because he’s not drawing any unusual looks from passing pedestrians. 

Almost ten minutes later, an idea sparks in his mind, and first, he dismisses it, but then it seems more and more likely with each passing minute. 

Jack had always joked about the invisible lift having a secret code, or rather, a secret knock. And if there was anything Jack liked, it was to play a practical joke, which is why Ianto uses the soles of his stolen and ill-fitting boots to knock out the rhythm of “Shave and a Haircut” into the paving stone.

He waits a few more seconds, heart skipping a beat, before there’s a familiar low scraping sound. Then, finally, the lift begins to descend.

Below him is no longer the familiar sight of the Hub, which strikes sorrow into his heart. Instead, he descends into a singular room the size of Jack’s office. When he steps off the lift, he realizes that the walls are made of brick. The floor is cement. The room is barren, dusty, and cobwebbed, but faint lights flicker on to illuminate a singular object in the room, a long slab that juts out from the wall.

When Ianto approaches it, he realizes that there is the imprint of a keyboard built onto its surface. He has an inkling of an idea of how to proceed.

Ianto presses the keys of his name into the keyboard and nothing happens. Then he tries his Torchwood personnel code, and there’s a soft buzz as a blue light projects from the back wall and scans Ianto.

“ _ Identity confirmed _ ,” an automated voice says. “ _ Torchwood Three operative Ianto Jones.” _

The wall before Ianto glows to life, a white screen spreading across it, but it remains blank. He continues staring at it in bewilderment.

Then, from behind him: “ _ Ianto _ ?”

  
Ianto turns around, and his jaw drops. “ _ Gwen _ ?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you guys think about that ending? What do you think Ianto's getting up to? What about Jack?
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/rajkumarinik) to let me know how much you liked this fic or request a prompt. Also, please comment or drop a line below even if it's to telling me how you've been doing. I thrive on kudos and social interaction, especially in this day and age.
> 
> Let me know what you liked to see Jack, Ianto, and/or Jack and Ianto get up to next!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ianto explores the Torchwood Three Archive with Gwen. Jack deals with trouble on a human colony planet at Torchwood's behest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3! I'm glad some of you guys are sticking around to read this fic. I love all your lovely comments! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Once again, thanks to Kai/@transjackianto on Twitter.

**3009**

**Cardiff**

**Ianto**

“ _ Ianto?” _

Ianto turns around, and his jaw drops. “ _ Gwen _ ?”

Before him stands Gwen Cooper-Williams, looking exactly as she had when Ianto had last seen her, almost a full week ago - he’s still not sure how to deal with the time confusion between his first death in Thames House and the House of the Dead. Gwen’s wide green eyes stare back at him in amazement, the familiar dark fringe parted neatly against her forehead. Her usual leather jacket is zipped up high up to her collarbone, and her arms are crossed over her chest.

Ianto continues to gape at his friend who has supposedly been long-dead for over a thousand years. “Is that really you, Gwen?” he asks, painful hope flickering in his chest. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Ianto, love.” Gwen smiles at him, revealing her endearing gap tooth. Her words cause Ianto’s hope to sputter out: “I’m sorry. I’m not really here. I died, just as you said.” Her smile dims a bit. “Don’t worry about me. I had a good life. I lived happily with Rhys. We had two kids. Anwen and-”

“Evan,” Ianto says, returning Gwen’s smile despite the slight hollowness he feels. He doesn’t know why he feels disappointed; he already knew the truth - Gwen couldn’t really have been here. “I know. I looked you up.”

“Evan Ianto,” Gwen corrects. “We named him after you.” She furrows her brow. “Well, it was either after you or Owen, and Rhys thought that Evan Owen Cooper-Williams might have been too much.”

“That would have,” agrees Ianto. He swallows roughly. Knowing that Gwen and that Mica and David had honored him like that...it’s a bit too much for him right now. “Thank you.” His words trail off quietly. Then he glances back up, something sudden occurring to him. “How  _ are _ you here, Gwen? Or rather, what are you?” A pause. “What is this place?”

Gwen’s expression takes on a cast of sadness, and she gestures around her, around the small barren room. “This is the Torchwood Three Archive,” she explains. “Around 2015, I helped rebuild Torchwood Three again, and Jack came back. Torchwood thrived and became the Institute again. It went on past my death. Then, some time after a few centuries, the Institute felt that Torchwood Three had become redundant without the Rift. They purposefully shut it down. Jack left again.” She offers a faint smile. “But the last director knew that Torchwood Three would be needed again, that Jack would return to Cardiff one day. He had the Hub sealed off but left this Archive in its stead for when Jack would return. Here is everything Jack should ever need from Torchwood.” Her smile widens, becomes stronger and more confident. “It was one of my last wishes. I left Torchwood for a bit, but I had to come back. I could never leave forever.”

“And you?” Ianto asks softly.

“I’m a computer interface, Ianto,” Gwen replies wryly, “cobbled together from Tosh’s remaining technology, some of Mainframe, and some AI.” She notices Ianto’s eyebrows lift in surprise and nods. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m not Gwen Cooper. I have her personality, some of her memories, her mind. I was put together based off of the CCTV footage, her reports, and her brain scans.” She cocks her head. “Does that not make me Gwen Cooper?”

“I…” begins Ianto. “I can’t say.” Finally, he settles for: “I guess you are Gwen.” He attempts his own weak smile. A beat of strained silence passes by. “I’m glad to see you again.”

“I’m glad to see you too, Ianto,” Gwen tells him. Then after a few moments, her eyes narrow. “How are you here?” She sounds inquisitive but not suspicious, perfectly Gwen. 

Ianto chuckles awkwardly. “Did Jack ever tell you how the Rift was sealed? At the House of the Dead?” When she nods, he continues, “When I sealed the Rift, instead of killing me, I think it absorbed me.” He hesitates. “I think it made me like Jack.”

“Like Jack?” Gwen raises an eyebrow. “So you can’t die either?”

He doesn’t meet her gaze when he nods. “Not for lack of trying, but it hasn’t stuck so far.” Finally, he meets her sad eyes. “But I didn’t live through the last thousand years. Instead, the Rift spit me out on a planet called Brileia two days ago.” He goes on to explain everything that happened to him until he arrived in Cardiff. 

“And now you’re looking for Jack,” Gwen presumes. Her expression has gone sympathetic. “Oh, Ianto, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I know how much Jack would never wish his condition upon anyone else.”

Ianto feels a sudden flare of anger at Gwen’s words. “But don’t you see, Gwen,” he retorts, voice rising, “Jack doesn’t have to be alone again. He doesn’t have to worry about losing anyone ever again. I’ll always be there for him. I just have to find him first.” Then he deflates a bit: “That is if Jack still wants me.”

To Ianto’s surprise, Gwen straightens up and fixes him with a cross look that makes him feel like a child. Or more morbidly, a butterfly pinned to a wall under her gaze. “Ianto Jones!” she says. “Don’t you ever dare say that! Jack Harkness loves you. Dare I say, he never stopped loving you.”

“How do you know?” asks Ianto glumly, glancing at his feet and crossing his arms over his chest.

“ _ Ianto _ .” Gwen sighs. “When you died, something in Jack died with you. He wasn’t really the same after. He came back to Torchwood, but his heart wasn’t in it.” She frowns. “To be honest, neither was mine. Not without you, Tosh, and Owen.” 

“If you say so,” he replies, still not glancing up.

Sensing a losing battle, Gwen shakes her head. “So Brileia. Two moons right?” At Ianto’s sudden surprised expression: “You do realize I’m still partially connected to the Torchwood Institute’s system?”

Ianto shrugs. “It was beautiful.”

“Jack was there,” Gwen tells him, “but I have a feeling you already know that. Torchwood sent Jack there. He’d been there a whole decade.”

His eyebrows lift in surprise. “A whole decade, and I arrived on the last possible day he was there?”

“Fate loves you,” agrees Gwen. “Or at least loves playing with you and Jack.” She bounces slightly in her place. “So you’re still looking for Jack? I have a way that you will never lose him again.” She gestures to the wall behind Ianto where a panel has slid away to reveal a doorway. “Follow me!”

* * *

**3009**

**Puck Lunar Colony**

**Jack**

“Look,” Jack begins, crossing his arms over his broad chest, as he stares at the half-dozen colony soldiers scattered before him, “this is how this is going to work.” They’re all scowling at him. “I know that none of you want me here, but clearly, someone back on Earth felt that you haven’t done a very good job of cleaning up your own messes. That’s why I’m here.” He smiles charmingly.

“Harkness-” one of the soldiers, a red-haired fellow with a hawkish nose, begins.

Jack fixes him with a stern look. “Captain,” he corrects the soldier. “You may not want me here, but I am still your superior officer.”

“Captain Harkness,” the soldier amends, looking distinctly annoyed as he leans back in his chair. “It’s not that we don’t want you here, which we don’t.” A pause. “We don’t  _ need  _ you here. The Puck Lunar Colony force has a good track record. We are a fairly peaceful colony.”

“You did,” agrees Jack, arching a cocky eyebrow. “And you were. But that was  _ before  _ one of your citizens got their hands on Sontaran technology. Look at you!” He gestures around the room, glancing pointedly to each of the six soldiers. “He decimated your guard force! You must be fooling yourself or are entirely too cocky.” He restrains himself from adding,  _ not without reason _ , when his gaze drifts over the nearby soldier, a bulky man with distinctive brown eyes. He wouldn’t mind that soldier pinning him down and crawling all over him. Or his comrade, a petite woman with light hair wrapped in a tight bun who is currently scowling at Jack. “Admit it. You need my help.”

The force is glancing amongst themselves now, and Jack is pleased to see the bulky soldier nodding slightly. They seem to understand that he has a point, which makes them not entirely unreasonable people. The red-haired soldier leans over to whisper to his comrade.

_ It’s probably the jawline that softened them a bit _ , thinks Jack in amusement. As he’d once told Martha, his jawline was perfect: once seen, always longed for.

Finally, the light-haired woman speaks, staring up at Jack. “We’ll work with you on this one. We’ll comply with your orders.”

“But only since we know that you are here temporarily,” the original red-haired soldier adds.

“Noted.” Jack tosses his head back and barks a laugh, and some of the tension from the room fades a bit. “Now, you know my name. What are yours?”

The red-haired soldier, who turns out to be the highest-ranking soldier left on the force is named Lieutenant Crawford, introduces Jack to Privates Hammond (the bulky soldier), Lin, Porter (the light-haired woman), West, and Marn. Most of the privates regard Jack hesitantly, which he can’t blame them for.

He braces his forearms on the podium that stands before him. “Alright, now that we all know each other, fill me in on the situation. Who is the perpetrator of these attacks? Where did he get his hands on Sontaran blaster guns?”

“His name is Olly Kerr,” explains Porter. “Puck was once the site of a Sontaran invasion hundreds of years before our colony was settled here. The Sontarans must have left some weapons behind that Kerr, a miner, uncovered. He was unsatisfied with the Puck leadership and apparently decided to go on a killing spree.”

“And now Puck is without a guard force, governor, or leading council,” finishes Jack. “Right.” He smiles grimly. He knows the destruction Sontaran blasters can create. Half of the colony has been destroyed, and the rest has turned to warfare amongst themselves. “First order of business, we find and take down Kerr. Then we can figure out how to restore order and peace to Puck.”

* * *

**3009**

**Cardiff**

**Ianto**

“Where are we, Gwen?” Ianto asks in awe as he glances around the vast cavernous space lined with box-laden shelves. It almost resembles his domain from the original Hub, but he knows that the entire space was destroyed in the explosion.

“Welcome to the Torchwood Three Archive,” Gwen says proudly, spreading her arms out wide. “It was modelled off of your handiwork. The director wanted something familiar and welcoming to Jack.” She glances knowingly towards Ianto. “And we both know that Jack spent a lot of time down in the archive with you.”

Ianto flushes, cursing his pale Welsh skin. It had taken countless times of Owen, Tosh, or Gwen accidentally walking in on Jack and Ianto getting busy against a wall - or against a shelf or against a door or against Ianto’s desk or countless of other places - before they started narrating their movements in the Hub. Quickly, he changes the subject: “If you’re a computer interface, how come you’re so dimensional?” He casts a glance over Gwen, curves and all. 

Gwen shakes her head, smiling; she knows his tactics. “Holo-light projectors,” she explains. “Harvested from an alien ship. They’re all over the space. Allows me to look real...and feel real.”

“Wait,  _ what _ ?” Ianto asks in alarm, but Gwen doesn’t answer; she only steps forward and takes another step. Then another until she’s inches away from Ianto. Slowly, she reaches out and places a hand on Ianto’s shoulder, and to his surprise, it feels warm and firm.  _ Gwen  _ feels warm and firm. And alive. “How can you…?” He drifts his hand upwards, ghosting it over Gwen’s before slowly lowering his hand on top of hers. “How is that possible?”

“ _ Oh, Ianto _ ,” Gwen breaths. “Technology has progressed so far in the last thousand years, and Torchwood was always ahead of the curve.” She attempts a wry smile, but it’s more sad than anything.

Ianto is still caught up in feeling the sensation of Gwen’s skin against his palm. “Torchwood always was,” he says, voice filled with awe. 

Gwen lifts her hand, slipping it free of his, but instead of stepping backwards, she wraps her arms around him in a sudden hug, and he stiffens. A moment later, he melts into the embrace; she feels so real and alive and warm. It’s a Gwen hug, a type of physical contact he only accepts in moments of extreme weakness, although in the years that he knew Gwen, he got better at accepting her hugs. 

Only a handful of inches shorter than him, she nestles her head onto his shoulder, and he brings his nose to her hair, a bit alarmed when he can’t smell the familiar jasmine scent of her shampoo. But holo-light projectors can’t mimic everything, he assumes. 

All of a sudden, it’s too much, this abrupt physical contact and touch after the torturous week from hell he’s had.  _ It’s all too much _ , and he finds hot tears suddenly leaking down his cheeks, a nugget of sharp grief lodged in his throat that he can't swallow down. His heart  _ aches _ . He sniffles, which quickly turns into a choked-out sob escaping from his throat and echoing in the vast space. 

“It’s alright,” says Gwen gently, rubbing his back soothingly in a way that only her, Jack, and Tosh ever did (Owen usually settled for supportive nods and - once - a firm shoulder squeeze). Her hand ghosts hesitantly over his sensitive sides; she likely recalls how ticklish he is. “It’s alright.” Her tone is hushed, caring. “Let it out. You’ve had quite a week.” A beat. “Just let yourself cry.” She doesn’t seem bothered that Ianto’s tears are dampening her hair, but then again, she is a projection.

Another sob rips from his throat, muffled by the crown of her head, then another. He quivers in her embrace, shudders, chest heaving from the force of his descending sobs. His vision blurs from the tears, and somehow, he finds himself doubled over on his knees, Gwen wrapped along his back, hugging him and rubbing his shoulders and back. She murmurs softly to him.

He  _ died _ . He  _ died  _ in Thames House and begged Jack to remember him, told Jack he loved him, and Jack said, “ _ Don’t _ .” His memories from there are hazy, but in the House of the Dead, Jack told  _ him  _ he loved him. He wanted to sacrifice himself to stay forever in the dark void of death with Ianto, but Ianto wouldn’t let him; he  _ couldn’t _ let Jack throw away all of his lives like that.

Ianto had been prepared to die again.

But the Rift didn’t let him.

Instead, the Rift tossed him away from his home, away from his actual time. The Rift made him immortal. He can never die now, but he  _ can _ , and he has four times this week alone, and he comes back, and it’s beyond frightening. 

He’s been torn away from his family, from his friends, from  _ Jack _ , and been killed over and over again, just looking for Jack. It’s been beyond traumatic. 

And now, he has to go on for the rest of time and space, without everything he’s ever known and everyone he’s ever loved, and without knowing if he’ll see Jack again.

Ianto Jones lets himself cry, folded there in the arms of Gwen Cooper who is not truly the Gwen he knows.

* * *

**3009**

**Puck Lunar Colony**

**Jack**

_ On my count _ , Jack mouths to the team of soldiers across the barren patch of land from him. He holds up his hand, counting down for the two privates behind him.

The Puck Lunar Colony, as expected by its name, was established on a moon terraformed to resemble a desert. It’s all dry, sandy land dotted by scraggly trees and bushes, the sun high, full, and blazing hot in the sky.

It’s hot, too hot, here, and that’s Jack, who grew up on a sunny beach colony world, saying this.

_ Three _ , Jack counts.  _ Two _ .  _ One. _

He lobs forward the grenade, and after a three-second delay, it sparks, causing the invisibility field masking Olly Kerr’s hideout to flicker and fail. Kerr’s ramshackle wooden hut is revealed. Then, there’s another spark from the grenade, and it spews opaque gas around the land that makes Jack grateful for the filtration mask and goggles he and his team are wearing.

“Go!” he shouts, hearing a similar cry from Lieutenant Crawford. On his orders, both teams creep forward, advancing on the house from either side, led by Jack. He tightens his grasp on the giant gun he carries; he couldn’t necessarily rely on a Webley when facing Sontaran weapons.

He kicks the front door open, adrenaline blazing through his veins, and centers his gun on Olly Kerr, a weedy slip of a man with pale eyes sitting on a lone chair. Kerr barely has a moment’s notice before he’s surrounded on all sides, seven guns aimed at his head. 

“Olly Kerr,” Lieutenant Crawford says with barely suppressed rage, “you are under arrest for…” He trails off, obviously unsure where to even begin listing Kerr’s crimes. Finally, he settles on: “For inciting chaos, death, and destruction on Puck and for mass slaughter.”

Jack nods in approval at Crawford, who smiles grateful. The other man is naturally charismatic and confident and well-respected by his comrades. Jack thinks he’ll make a fine leader once the dust settles down in the colony.

“If you say so,” Kerr replies in a raspy voice, sneering at Crawford. “But really, I was bettering this shithole, and even you can’t deny that.” Then, swiftly, he reaches down and out of nowhere pulls a sleek Sontaran blaster which hums as it powers up.

Alarm sparks in Jack’s mind.

“ _ It’s a trap _ !” he shouts hoarsely. “ _ Everybody, get down! Take cover _ !” He shoves Hammond, the closest soldier to him, to the ground and dives forward just as Kerr pulls the trigger. The blast catches him in the front, searing pain spreading across his abdomen, and he screams. 

The world blacks out around him as Jack is overwhelmed in agony, and then, he dies for the first time in over a year.

When he gasps back to life, everything is dusty above him, and there’s a body inches from his head. It’s Kerr, a bullet lodged in his forehead. The other soldiers lay around him.

On wobbly legs, Jack rises and, slowly and carefully, checks his team’s pulses, sighing in relief when he finds that they are all alive but unconscious. Limping slightly, he gathers all the Sontaran weapons into a heap and waits.

Crawford is the first to wheeze awake, eyes flickering around wildly. “What happened?” he asks in alarm.

“Kerr pulled a weapon,” Jack explains, watching Crawford speculatively. He wonders if he’ll have to Retcon the soldier if he noticed Jack’s death. “What do you remember?”

Crawford blinks as the memories seemingly come filtering back to him. “Kerr pulled some kind of weapon. There was an explosion that worsened the gas. None of us could see anything, and in the chaos, Porter shot Kerr, but not before he used another weapon on us.”

Jack claps Crawford on the back, and the soldier flinches slightly. “Good man!” His smile widens, knowing that Crawford didn’t realize a thing. “Kerr knocked me out first,” he lies, “and then used the same weapon on you.” The next part is the truth. “It’s frankly harmless in Sontaran standards, just a sedative.” He tosses his head back and laughs. “You’ll be okay. Everyone will be okay.”

Well, everyone but Jack will be okay. He knows that today he will have nightmares,  _ bad  _ nightmares, the kind that leaves him either screaming hoarsely or lying paralyzed on his bed. Dying for the first time after months will do that to him.

* * *

**3009**

**Cardiff**

**Ianto**

“You’ve got a lot of tech here,” Ianto notes as Gwen lifts the lids off boxes and displays their contents to him. “All very advanced, even beyond what we would have been able to do in our time.” He attempts a weak smile. “This would have made Tosh drool.”

“It would have,” agrees Gwen, returning his smile. “Many of it was based on her designs in fact.”

It’s been about an hour since Ianto stopped sobbing, and although he’s returning to a calmer state, he’s still shaky. Gwen suggested introducing Ianto to the new technology and other devices in the Archive, and he knows that she hopes that it’ll distract him.

“Now, here,” Gwen says, ushering him to a new series of shelves, “is where all the tech that Jack would love is. Much of it was designed for him, and the rest was just hoarded here just in case he would ever need them.”

Ianto casts a glance at the vast number of shelves around him. “This is a lot of planning for Jack,” he says. “I’m presuming that the director knew about Jack’s immortality.”

Gwen nods. “He did, but not many other people at Torchwood Three did. They kept it as best a secret as they could.” She shrugs. “But a myth persisted about the Captain. Many in the Institute believe that Jack will one day be humanity’s last hope.”

“So they think that Jack is a superhero,” he surmises. Then he snorts. “Jesus, as if that man’s ego wasn’t big enough.” His smile becomes more confident when Gwen chuckles.

“You’ll like this,” Gwen says and pulls a thin letter badge from a box. She flips it open to reveal Ianto’s Torchwood identification. “Modelled off the Doctor’s.”

“It’s psychic paper,” Ianto tells her. “I know. We had some at Torchwood One.”

She reaches over to poke him in the ribs. “I know, Ianto,” she replies. “But ours is more effective. It’s able to fool telepathic species and scanning technology.”

Ianto’s eyebrows rise. “ _ Really _ ?” He doesn’t need to see the psychic paper in action to be impressed; he trusts her enough to take her word for it. “And what’s that?” He points to several sleek silver weapons that resemble guns lying on a shelf behind her.

Gwen turns to follow his finger. “Oh, those?” she asks. “Those are sonic blasters. Plus some extra batteries. Modeled after a weapon that Jack once described to me.” Then her expression becomes excited and giddy, eyes widening further. “ _ Oh _ , speaking of sonic! You’ll love this.” She hurries away to another shelf, and Ianto follows her. “A Tosh design.” She holds out a slim silver tube with a matte-black button on top. 

He takes it, bouncing it slightly on his fingertips. “And what is this?”

“Sonic screwdriver,” Gwen tells him, smiling widely.

Ianto’s eyebrows rise higher. “Did you just rip off the Doctor for everything?”

Gwen shrugs, laughing. “If it works. It’s pretty basic but should suffice.” She glances at Ianto. “Do you want to test it?”

Quickly, he shakes his head. “No, that would be disastrous around so much tech.” He hums curiously, now a little excited. “What else do you have?”

“I think you’ll recognize this.” Gwen dangles a simple silver key on a thin chain before him, and his heart skips as he recognizes it as one that Jack had worn quite close to his heart and often refused to take off. “It’s a-”

“TARDIS key.” Ianto gapes. “How…? Is it Jack’s?”   
  


She shakes her head. “No,” she tells him. “It was Martha’s. She entrusted it to her son August who joined Torchwood a little before I retired. He entrusted it to be passed down by each director until this Archive was created.” She pauses. “It’s a perception filter.”

“Invisible lift,” mutters Ianto to himself. “Invisible person.” When he glances up, he’s surprised to find that Gwen has moved and is now lifting a slim wooden box off a shelf. 

“This was based on my own design and research,” Gwen explains, “but only a later Torchwood Three engineer was able to successfully build it.” She cracks open the lid of the box to reveal a leather bracer.

Ianto’s breath catches in his throat. “Is that a vortex manipulator?” he dares to ask, fingers ghosting over the leather.

“It’s close,” Gwen replies, eyes focused on his movements over the bracer. “I based it off of Jack’s. It has a functioning teleport, but it can’t jump across time.” She offers an apologetic smile. “It uses a feedback link to track Jack’s vortex manipulator signature.” Her eyes spark with excitement.

“So if Jack teleports or uses a transmat, whoever has this replica would be able to track him?” Ianto asks, stunned.

Gwen nods. “It also has some of the capabilities of a sonic screwdriver and some other surprise features.”

“This is all amazing,” Ianto says finally, staring at Gwen in bewilderment. “But why are you showing it to me?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Because you’re going to take it,” she tells him. “You’re going to take the psychic paper, the sonic blasters, the sonic screwdriver, the perception filter, and the vortex manipulator, and you’re going to find Jack.” Her expression is stubborn and fixed, pure Gwen. “And no, I’m not leaving you a choice in this.”

* * *

**3009**

**Puck Lunar Colony**

**Jack**

“To Puck!” Hammond cries, lifting his flagon of wine high into the air, cheering. The soldiers around him join in on his next cry of “To Puck!”

“To Puck,” Jack chimes in, voice quieter, as he lifts his own glass of whatever Puck has that passes for vodka. He chuckles to himself. “And to Bad Wolf. Gimme another year without death. It was really nice.”

“Captain?”

Crawford sidles up to him, dressed in dark civilian clothing. He’s abandoned his comrades at the bar. “You’re not drinking the wine?” He gestures to Jack’s glass with his chin.

Jack shrugs. “Figured I’d try Puck’s specialities.” He takes a sip of his alcohol and nearly gags. “On second thought, perhaps the wine would be better.”

“Here.” To his surprise, Crawford hands him the flagon he’d been holding. “Take mine.” At Jack’s speculative glance: “I’m not much of a drinker. I’d just wanted to join in on the celebration.”

“Good man,” Jack tells him, smirking, and Crawford flushes. He’s not an unattractive man; his eyes are narrow and intense, and his fingers are long and callused to suggest that he spends a lot of time at the gun range. 

Jack takes a sip of the wine. It tastes faintly sweet and of apples. He licks his lips, chasing the aftertaste, and Crawford’s eyes follow the motion.  _ Oh _ , Jack thinks smugly.  _ He’s definitely interested _ .

“You all did good today,” he says, nodding to Crawford’s men. “All of you. We killed Kerr and recovered the weapons. In the following days, we’ll be able to form something of a new government from Puck and restore peace to the colony.”

_ All in a day’s work. Not bad, Harkness. _

“We couldn’t have done it without you,” Crawford tells him earnestly, lips curving into a smile. “You led us well.” He hesitates briefly. “I’m sorry for having doubted your authority.”

Jack’s smirk widens. “I don’t blame you.”

“I’m still sorry nonetheless,” Crawford repeats. He glances down, evidently nervous. “I know I just said that I don’t drink much, but I have a special bottle of mead I’ve been saving for a celebration, and I think now might be the right occasion. Would you like to come back to my lodgings and taste it?” 

His offer sounds tempting, and Jack’s lips part to accept it. Instead, he finds himself saying, “Any other day, any other place, Lieutenant Crawford, I would accept your offer, but I’m only here for a few more days. You should save that bottle for someone truly special.”

“ _ Oh _ .” Crawford looks disheartened, a shadow cast over his features. “Well, thanks for your support anyways, sir.”

As Crawford disappears towards the bar, Jack flinches. There had really only been one man who had ever called Jack  _ sir  _ and meant it in a way that Jack’s never heard again, and he’s been dead for a thousand years. And recently, every day that passes, Jack can’t stop thinking about him.

He doesn’t know why he said no to Crawford when he was prepared to say yes. He doesn’t know why he’s still hung up on his long-dead boyfriend, no matter how much he’d loved Ianto.

Jack barely knows much of anything nowadays. He’s around three thousand years old, and it’s beginning to wear him a bit thin.

* * *

**3009**

**Cardiff**

**Ianto**

“I don’t know what to say.” Ianto’s words are honest when he glances helplessly up at Gwen. “I don’t know if I’m ever going to come back here again.”

“Say goodbye,” Gwen replies encouragingly. “I’m Gwen Cooper, and I may not have been the Gwen Cooper  _ you knew _ , but I’m still a version of her. Tell me what you would say to her if you could.”

Ianto gulps. He channels every single feeling and thought he’s ever had since he first met Gwen Cooper-Williams in the tourist office. “Thank you, Gwen. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” He hesitates. “I never really got to tell you this when either of us was alive, properly, but I consider you a big sister to me, like Rhiannon. Despite everything that happened between you and Jack, you were always supportive of us. After Owen and Tosh died, I thought you were one of the strongest people I’d ever met, to be able to hold it together, to hold us together.” He sighs, his eyes once again prickling with tears. “You truly were the heart of Torchwood. I love you, and I’m going to miss you.” He sniffles.

“Oh.” Gwen’s eyes glow with sadness. “ _ Oh _ , Ianto, you bloody idiot. I love you too. You were the heart of Torchwood as much as I was. We all were, you, me, Owen, Tosh, Jack.” Her lips twitch; it looks like she’s also trying to hold back tears. “Those years with our team were some of the best years of my life. I raised Anwen and Evan on stories about you defeating the Night Travellers.”

“I hope you didn’t tell them the bad stuff,” Ianto jokes wetly, rubbing his eyes. He’s mindful of the technology now stuffed into his pockets. 

Gwen’s expression softens. “I told them the bad stuff too. I told them about the man who loved Lisa so much that he risked the world for her. I told them to love like Ianto did.” The tears have begun to flow down her cheeks. “Don’t worry; I didn’t leave out Tosh or Owen either.”

Ianto inhales sharply, throat clogged with emotion. “I’m glad you had a happy, long life with Rhys. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there for it.”

“I don’t blame you, Ianto,” she tells him. “I missed you every day. I’ll miss you every day now.” Despite the tears, she smiles her big, warm Gwen Cooper smile at him. “I love you. Tell Jack I miss him when you see him.”

“I will,” Ianto promises. “I will tell him. And I’ll remember you for as long as I can.” He folds back the top flap of the vortex manipulator that now sits snugly on his right wrist and types in coordinates he remembers from Torchwood One, feeling every inch like Jack Harkness. “Good bye, Gwen!” She nods at him, and he uses that as permission to tap the engage button. The air around him starts to glow golden and shiver apart, and a second later, Ianto is infused in golden light. 

Then, a moment later, he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of the first arc, guys! The next chapter is one I refer to as more of a bubble episode/bottle episode. What do you think Ianto's getting up to? What about Jack?
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/rajkumarinik) to let me know how much you liked this fic or request a prompt. Also, please comment or drop a line below even if it's to telling me how you've been doing. I thrive on kudos and social interaction, especially in this day and age.
> 
> Let me know what you liked to see Jack, Ianto, and/or Jack and Ianto get up to next! Or even who you'd like to see pop in.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ianto figures out what it means to be immortal and builds a life for himself on a colony world. Jack...suffers and meets a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so here's that bubble-episode/bottle-episode I promised. Notice that the tags have been updated. Although you are going to see the boys romantically entangled with many others, including a few familiar faces, I promise you that they will end up happy together (maybe...), though we do have a while to go before that. 
> 
> For now, enjoy this chapter. (We will be diving into more Big Finish territory, but I'll be keeping things deliberately vague, and I will forewarn for what audios are being involved. For now, this chapter features some references to R&J from Lives of Captain Jack Vol. 3, although all you really need to know is that Jack and River have met in the past and know each other.)

**3060**

**Leev**

**Ianto**

Ianto hadn’t expected time to pass easily, but before he knows it, fifty years have glided by, and he still hasn’t found Jack.

He’s now seventy-seven, or well, should have been, and he wonders when he’ll stop counting his age. (He wonders if Jack ever did.) He’s spent the last five decades wandering this galaxy, this one corner of the universe, waiting for Jack to jump across space, to teleport or use a transmat, but Jack still hasn’t. If Ianto hadn’t finally understood the vastness of space for himself, he would have found that unusual. Why would Jack jump from planet to planet in the blink of an eye when there was a lifetime of adventure on a single planet alone?

While he waits, Ianto has been making the best of his immortality. He’s tried new cuisines, explored new cultures and languages, seen extraordinary sights. Met extraordinary new aliens and other humans. He hasn’t stayed celibate, no; he thinks that’s an unreasonable expectation to make for fifty years, especially when he’s frozen in the prime of his young life for the rest of time.

But here Ianto is, wandering a small human colony planet called Leev, deep in thought, barely paying attention to his surroundings.

Leev is small, barely one-fourth the size of Earth, and covered in large stretches of alien forestry. The lush land is interwoven by winding rivers and thick meadows. The human settlers came here for a simple life, one less burdened by the bustling and polluted cities on Earth. Now, three generations on, they live in small villages and lead rustic lives.

Ianto has been on Leev for less than a week, and he already adores the planet and its culture. The richly-dyed silky fabrics appeal to the small part of Ianto that lied about being a tailor’s son, despite him having long left the suits behind.

He’s meandering through the Leevan marketplace, heading for a cart that sells a very unique sample of this fabric, when his hip inadvertently checks the corner of another cart, sending several pots of alien flora tumbling to the ground. The ceramic pots smash in a mess of soil and bright flowers.

Immediately, Ianto freezes, and with quick reflexes trained by fighting Weevils, he swivels around, an apology ready on his lips. His apology dies at the sight of a young woman with hair like cornsilk braided down her back frantically gathering clumps of soil and glaring venomously. She is evidently the owner of the cart.

“Do you ever watch where you’re going?” she spits at Ianto in the local lilting dialect, translated into twenty-first century English by his vortex manipulator.

Ianto kneels besides her and begins to aid her in sweeping the soil into a mostly-intact pot. “I’m really, _really_ sorry,” he tells her genuinely. “I was lost in thought. I wasn’t looking where I was going. It’s my fault.” He offers her an apologetic smile.

To his surprise, her glare actually falters. “No, no. It was my fault too. I placed the pots too close to the edge.” She ducks her head, blushing, her braid snaking over the shoulder of her cream-colored blouse. “They were rare flowers.”

“I can still compensate you,” he offers, and her eyes widen slightly, “for both our mistakes. And for your cart’s loss.” When she begins to shake her head, his grin widens: “No, really, allow me.” He scrapes the last bit of soil into the pot.

“I _will not_ allow you to pay me,” she insists. “My name is Ariadne. This is my cart.” She shrugs self-consciously. “Obviously.” She rises to her feet and places the cracked pot on the cart’s edge.   
  


“I’m Ianto.” He picks up shards of ceramic, handing them up to her. “I’m just visiting Leev.”

“Visiting, huh?” Ariadne leans her body against the cart, dropping the shards in a small bin behind her. “How have you liked Leev so far?”

“Well,” Ianto begins, still grinning, “I’d been touring the lovely marketplace when I got yelled at by a local.”

“By a local?” Ariadne echoes, dark eyes dancing mischievously. “How rude of them?” She’s a slip of a woman, but her stance, legs planted on the ground, arms crossed over her chest, reminds Ianto of Gwen, ready to react at a moment’s notice. “Maybe I can make it up to you.” She raises an expectant eyebrow at him. “Buy you a drink?”

Ianto’s still kneeling on the ground and glances up at her. She gazes back at him, head cocked challengingly. Then he chuckles. “Sure, but I’m paying for the next one.”

* * *

**3060**

**Deep space**

**Jack**

Out here, space is a thick, empty blanket of darkness with not even the faint glimmer of nearby stars. There is nothing here. There is no one here.

There is no one here but a single man. His eyes are shut, shielding them from the vacuum of space. This man is Jack Harkness, survivor of a spaceship malfunction, and he has been floating out here in deep space for fifty years.

Jack Harkness is dead but not really. The vacuum of space kills him constantly, and to protect him, his body and mind have shut down. He exists in a dream-like state, which although is not death, is still a prison of a similar kind.

_The Hub is silent, deadly silent. Ianto doesn’t like the Hub silent, dreads it even, but Jack, pressed to his back, can barely reign in his laughter. He has to hold in his laughter, otherwise he’ll give away the-_

_“SURPRISE!”_

_In a chaotic blink of the eye, Gwen leaps out from behind the water tower, draped in colored streamers. She’s beaming and not alone. Tosh and Owen pop up from behind their respective desks. Martha and Mickey are emerging from the boardroom._

_“What?” Ianto asks, blinking as he glances around. “What is this? What’s going on?” He spots Martha and Mickey. “When did Martha get here?” He turns to Jack expectantly, expression adorably bewildered._

_“It’s your birthday party,” Jack explains, stepping closer to kiss that adorable frown off of Ianto’s face. “We were going to throw you an actual surprise birthday party at our flat, but that got ruined when those Weevils attacked the bowling alley.”_

_“And it’s not every day a bloke turns thirty, mate,” Owen adds, coming up on Ianto’s other side. “Look! We even got you a cake.” He points to a table they’ve wheeled in and hidden off to the side where a pink pastry box and shiny wrapped presents are stacked. “Granted, we got really lucky that the baker agreed to do a coffee and dark chocolate cake.” He frowns. “The first three we asked refused.”_

_“That’s because you showed up at their door covered in Weevil guts,” Gwen reminds him dryly. She presses a kiss to Ianto’s cheek. “Happy birthday, love. Rhys will be by later when he manages to drop Anwen and Evan at my parents’ house.”_

_“So?” Tosh asks excitedly, rubbing her hands together. Her dark eyes are sparkling with joy. “Do you like it? Were you surprised?”_

_“You didn’t have to do any of this,” says Ianto slowly, still evidently stunned. Gently, Jack rubs his back. Ianto is not necessarily well-versed with surprise social interactions. He once told Jack that he’d rather have a Weevil thrown at him any day than attend the family dinners Rhiannon keeps trying to invite them to at a moment’s notice._

_“Nonsense,” Martha says sternly, Mickey resting his hand on her shoulder. They both smile at Ianto. “It’s your birthday. Aside from it being the decent human thing to throw your mate a party, you deserve it. Mickey and I couldn’t have gotten reservations for our anniversary without your help.”_

_“And of course we were going to do it,” Tosh chimes in. The team has come to gather around Jack and Iano in a loose ring. “We’re your family.”_

_Ianto doesn’t protest, his lips quirking up into a loose smile, so Gwen claps her hands. “Let’s cut the cake,” she announces with the enthusiasm of her daughter._

_When Ianto counts the thirty candles that someone - likely Gwen or Owen - have jammed into the cake’s light-colored icing, his smile grows, his eyes widening. “After...everything, I didn’t think I would make it to twenty-five, let alone thirty,” he admits, voice and words soft._

_Jack claps a hand on his shoulder, smirking at his boyfriend. “Need not worry about that,” he tells Ianto. “You’re also going to make it to thirty-five, whether you like it or not.”_

_At that, Ianto tosses his head back and laughs, and Jack’s body floods with warmth. He’s travelled across the universe, but Ianto’s laugh is one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard. Jack wakes up each morning intent on hearing Ianto laugh. His heart is filled with love as he gazes at Ianto Jones, alive, healthy, safe and older, as he never was in real life._

In his dream-like state, Jack smiles.

* * *

**3064**

**Leev**

**Ianto**

“Are you sure?” Ianto asks, gaping just a little at his wife. He sets the scrap of silk that he’d been toying with down on his desk. “Are you absolutely sure?”

Ariadne nods. “The med scanners confirmed it. The doctor said that I’m a month along.” But despite the hand that that comes to cradle her stomach, she doesn’t look excited. Or even happy. Her eyes are narrowed, and her expression reflects back the same emotional turmoil in the pit of Ianto’s own stomach. 

When Ariadne had approached him only a few minutes ago and told him the news, told him, “I’m pregnant,” his mind had gone blank. He’d stared at her, stunned, is still staring at her, stunned. The first thought that had filtered into his mind had been: _Oh no_. Then among the dread, fear, and subconscious swearing, had come the smallest bit of joy, bright and fizzling like champagne bubbles, growing warmer and warmer and spreading across his body.

When he was younger, when he was kid, Ianto had been determined to not have kids. He had been determined to spare any of his potential future kids from having the genes of someone like Ianto’s father. He’d wanted to spare any future babies from being born into the Jones family; Rhiannon’s kids had to be enough. 

But then Ianto met Lisa at Torchwood One, and despite all he learned, about aliens, about the dangers in the universe, with Lisa, Ianto realized that he had a chance. He began to want things he’d never really wanted before - marriage, family, kids, a house, but that all went up in flames, with Lisa. And with Jack...Jack had never seemed like he would want any of that. He was an eternal playboy and adventurer; he would never want to settle down for a quiet life with Ianto. And by the time Ianto had realized that Jack could actually do that, had actually done that with his daughter, that he _had_ a daughter and grandson, it was too late.

“That’s wonderful,” he finally tells Ariadne, words genuine, but her gaze doesn’t soften.

“You don’t really mean that.”

“ _Ariadne_ …” Ianto sighs and turns to face her, giving her his full undivided attention. He does mean it, he really does think that it’s wonderful news, but he doesn’t know how to convince her. His lips press together in a firm line. He reaches over to fiddle with the leather strap of his vortex manipulator. 

“You never take that off,” Ariadne notes quietly, and Ianto glances up to find that she’s followed his focus to the vortex manipulator on his right wrist - he can’t bear to wear it on his left, too much like Jack. “You don’t even shower without it.”

“Ariadne,” says Ianto again, pleadingly, but his wife’s only just getting started.

“You told me that there was nothing in your past, Ianto,” she says to him, hands grasped tightly together. Her shoulders are tense, and her expression is pained; clearly, this confrontation has been brewing long in her. “But every day I see you, every day that passes, it seems that your gaze goes just a bit more distant. It’s almost like you’re waiting for someone.” Her head tilts, her lips quirking in a helpless smile. “Who are you waiting for, Ianto? What can they provide you that _I_ can’t?”

Ianto can feel his resolve weakening. The urge to glance back at the vortex manipulator burns in him, but he doesn’t want her ire. He wishes he could give her everything she wants. He does love her.

When Ariadne had first come to Ianto and told him she loved him, it had taken Ianto days to accept that, to accept that she loved him. With Lisa, Ianto had been young and naive; everything had been easy with Lisa, well as easy as it was ever going to get with the reserved and emotionally-constipated Ianto. With Jack, everything had been harder. Ianto had suffered for months, loving Jack and thinking that Jack would not love him back, and well, he knew how that had gone.

He had truly not expected that he could fall in love again, fall for someone who wasn’t Jack. But it had happened. Sometime between his first drink with Ariadne, leading to him falling into her bed, and months of what he later realized was essentially a relationship, he’d fallen for her. (How could he not? She’s witty and vivacious, as bright as her hair, the best of Lisa and Jack.) After an internal quandary that he’d raged over for days, he’d finally professed his love back. Then he’d married her, but he’d never truly set Jack aside.

“You have a wife and a baby on the way,” Ariadne tells him pleadingly. She slips down to her knees before Ianto can protest and takes his hands in hers. “We love you. Are we not enough for you?” With each moment that stretches by before Ianto responds, with each moment he takes to search for the right words, a shadow slowly finds its place behind her eyes. “If we’re not, Ianto Jones, tell me now. Because…” And here, she hesitates for just a moment. “Because if you’re not going to be here for us, I will take our son and raise him without a father.”

Something shifts in Ianto’s world, his vision going hazy. His heart lightens. All he can gasp out, noting that his tone is unexpectedly happy: “We’re having a son?”

Ariadne nods slowly, almost like she can sense an abrupt change in him, and all of a sudden, Ianto can feel a small hand clutched in his. A little boy with his snub nose and dark hair but Ariadne’s dark eyes and rounded cheeks. A little boy he can raise on stories about Tosh the brilliant, Owen the brash, Gwen the benevolent. Jack the bold.

Jack’s eternal; he will always have time. But Ariadne is mortal. Her time with Ianto is running out.

“I’ll stay,” he says to Ariadne, smiling. His eyes are wet. “I’ll stop waiting.”

* * *

**3065**

**Deep space**

**Jack**

_“I love you, you big lug,” coos Ianto._

_Jack, slumped against the many fluffy pillows of their bed, scowls at his boyfriend. “Sure,” he gripes. “As if you don’t say that enough to your actual lover.”_

_Ianto raises a disbelieving eyebrow at Jack, perched at the end of the bed, one hand extended to stroke the soft head of their cocker spaniel Untitled. “We’re barely here, Jack,” he reminds him. “Untitled sees the dogsitter more than us.” He chuckles when Untitled’s wet tongue flicks out to lick his palm. “You can’t be jealous of our bloody dog!”_

_He very immaturely wants to reply,_ Watch me _, but Jack can’t. Untitled is basically Ianto’s baby; almost a year ago, they’d had a call about a potential shapeshifter in a pet shelter. Ianto had seen the small cocker spaniel puppy and had been unable to resist bringing the puppy home. They’d argued about names for weeks until Owen had snappily suggested_ Untitled _, saying “You’re never going to be able to name that mutt, anyways.”_

_Now, Jack sighs. He can’t deny that he loves their dog either, especially not when he places his paws in Jack’s lap and begs for treats after dinner. “Fine! But he’s not sleeping in our bed tonight.”_

_“Well,” Ianto tells him critically, scratching behind Untitled’s ears, “if you hadn’t let Untitled sleep between us when he was a puppy, that wouldn’t be a problem.”_

_“I don’t regret it,” Jack replies, draping himself over Ianto’s bare back and pressing a kiss to his neck. Ianto leans into his embrace. Jack reaches his other hand to rub the soft fur above Untitled’s eyes who_ woofs _quietly, panting. He wags his tail happily, and Jack smiles._

_He’s happy right now; he has his boyfriend, their dog, and their flat, and - not that he thinks he’ll tell Ianto for a while - recently, he’s been thinking about a fourth addition to their little family. A little boy with either of their blue eyes and their dark hair but with Ianto’s nose - of course, Jack’s cheekbones and smile - named Gareth, Ioan, or something Welsh. Or a little girl, who Jack will insist on middle-naming Rose._

_It’s just a possibility, just a thought, but either way, Jack is content-_

“Captain? _Captain_?” Someone’s calling his name, slapping him lightly, and Jack murmurs softly in protest. He wants to stay with Ianto and Untitled. “Captain? Jack!”

Groggily, Jack’s eyes flicker open, and the first thing he sees is a mass of blond curls. Then the curls move back until he can make out a gorgeous woman. Sharp cheekbones. Lips darkened with a shade that even in his woozy state, he can’t help but admire. Green eyes that sparkle at him in humor but also don’t mask their concern. She’s wearing a dark spacesuit that somehow still manages to cling to her many curves. River Song.

Odd. Jack could have sworn he was just with Ianto.

“Captain?” River repeats softly, bending next to Jack until their faces are level. “Jack? How do you feel?”

“ _River_?” Jack asks, words slow and slurred. “Where am I? What are you doing here?”

River’s lips tilt into a wry smirk. “You’re aboard my ship, Captain. I found you, floating out in space.” She pauses. “You were dead. Took much longer to come back this time.” When she notices Jack’s startled expression, her smirk melts into a much gentler smile. “How long were you out there?”

The memories come flooding back. Travelling across deep space in the cruiser he’d been working on. The engine malfunction. The red lights blaring. The crash. Jack’s body being launched into space. The constant dying until his body shut down.

“What year is it?” His voice is hoarse; of course it will be if he hasn’t used it in so long.

“3065,” she tells him.

“The cruiser I was on crashed,” he says meaninglessly. “Last time I checked, it was 3011.” He swallows down the lump in his throat. 

“You were floating in space for fifty years,” River says, voice soft. Her eyes are pained. “Don’t worry about going anywhere. Stay here, rest.” She rises to her feet and heads towards the door but stops to glance back at him. “You’re lucky. We found your storage locker in the remains of the ship before we found you. That’s how I knew you were out here. I saw your coat.”

“Thank you,” he tells her, the warmth of relief spreading through him. He licks his dry lips. “Are we linear?”

She nods. “Yes, for once, our timelines match up. Don’t worry; I already checked.” She smiles again. “Looks like, for once, the universe took pity on you, Captain.”

* * *

**3070**

**Leev**

**Ianto**

“Daddy, daddy!” The little boy rockets out of Ianto’s grasp, darting forward towards a cart selling colorful silks. “They look like the fabrics in your shop!”

“Huw, _no_!” And Ianto winces as his son stumbles too close to the cart, nearly pulling down several bolts of brightly-dyed and expensive cloth. He offers an apologetic smile to the merchant, who glances down at the small boy and smiles widely herself. 

Ianto can’t fault her; his son truly is adorable, the perfect mix of him and Ariadne. Fair hair that Ariadne still presumes will darken to a shade similar to Ianto’s, chubby cheeks, and Ianto’s snub nose. All gangly limbs and baby fat. And the feature that Ianto and his wife find oddest of all but still adore? Huw’s jade green eyes that look out at the world in wonder. The green certainly didn’t come from Ianto’s family, and Ariadne says that her entire family had brown eyes, so it’s a mystery where the color is from.

The moment that baby Huw had been placed into Ianto’s arms just minutes after birth, Ianto had fallen in love with his son. There had been no hesitation. As the doctors had tended to Ariadne, Ianto had rocked his son gently, murmuring an old Welsh hymn that his mother used to sing to him. He’d seen the soft downy hair and the little red face, and his heart had ached.

Five years later, Ianto’s heart still aches but so does his legs. Huw is such a rambunctious little boy, much more than Ianto had been. He’s full of energy, always running around or chasing after local pets. He loves to play around in the fabrics that Ianto brings home from his shop, and he loves, loves, _loves_ his parents.

Despite how much Ianto has to chase after his son, he would instantly sacrifice the world to keep Huw safe. To his surprise - after many sleepless nights of worrying that he would turn out like his own father despite Ariadne’s reassurances, he took almost naturally to fatherhood and carries his paternal duties out with the same reverence and responsibility he used to take to brewing coffee or mending Jack’s greatcoat.

“C’mon, Huw.” Gently, Ianto lifts his son to his feet and takes one small hand in his. “How many times have I told you not to run in the marketplace? There’s too many people here. You could get lost.” Huge green eyes blink up at him, and Ianto sighs, reaching down to brush off Huw’s clothes. “Alright. I’ll let you be this once. Let’s go see Mummy.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Huw tells him. “I’ll be careful now.” He smiles toothily up at his father. “Mummy?”

Ianto chuckles. “Right this way!” Ensuring that Huw’s hand is still clutched in his grip, he advances towards the edge of the marketplace where almost a decade ago Ianto had bumped into a flower cart and earned the ire of its beautiful owner. In the last ten years, his glances towards the vortex manipulator, worn on his right wrist, has lessened. Some days, he almost forgets about it. “Mummy is waiting for us.” He steps forward, Huw jumping over an uneven tile on the ground.

At that moment, a man urgently striding forward clips Ianto’s shoulder as he passes by. He doesn’t glance up nor does he offer an apology as he continues on his way.

Scowling, Ianto yells after him, “Watch where you’re going! You nearly hit my son!” He glares daggers into the man’s back, which he realizes is a familiar broad back clad in synthetic leather. One of his eyebrows rises in concentration as he attempts to place the man from his memory. Perhaps one of the merchants from another village? 

“Mummy!”

His attention is diverted as Huw launches himself forward again, but this time, to Ianto’s immense relief, he’s embraced by a woman with cornsilk hair. Ariadne. She kneels down and takes Huw into her arms, lifting him up and pressing a kiss into his own light hair.

“Oomph, you’re getting heavy, Huw,” she teases as their son winds his arms around his neck. “And you, Mr. Jones,” - she presses a sweet kiss to Ianto’s mouth - “are late.”

“No,” Ianto tells her as she leans into his side. He wraps an arm around her waist. “We’re on time. You finished early.” A beat. “Sell everything?”

Ariadne nods, grinning cheerfully. “Some big party in a village over meant that they bought almost all my stock before noon.” She reaches up to pinch Huw’s chubby cheek, and both she and Ianto laugh at their son’s griping. “Then I had a nice chat with a very, _very_ charming stranger.” She readjusts her grip on Huw. “He was telling me about his travels.”

“Something I need to worry about?” jokes Ianto, linking hands with Ariadne and tangling their fingers together. They begin to advance towards the village center.

“Oh, please, Ianto,” Ariadne replies playfully. “I much prefer a tailor with a steady job than a drifter.” Her smile falters slightly. “He did have very sad eyes however. Eyes that were much older than he was.”

* * *

**3070**

**Leev**

**Jack**

“And so you can basically see the stars’ reflections in the water,” Jack tells the flower seller, resting his elbow on the cart and leaning closer to her. He flashes her a charismatic grin, and she giggles. “And in the winters, the ocean freezes, and folks will go out and basically skate on the frozen waves. They turn into a bit of a holiday to celebrate the end of the harvest season.”

“That sounds... _unbelievable_ ,” the flower seller says, gasping slightly. She’s hung on his every word, dark eyes rapt, lips turned up in a slight smile. “Gorgeous. I wish I could have seen such a sight.” Her crossed arms are braced on the surface of her cart, the dull gold of her wedding band on clear display, but it doesn’t matter to Jack; he’s only here for a quick playful flirt.

She’s pretty enough, with light hair in waves down her back and sharply impressive cheekbones that Jack almost envies. Her lips are almost as pink as the flowers she’s selling, but her hands are rough and calloused from working with soil and gardening tools. She’s used to manual labor it seems.

“Never travelled?” Jack asks, cocking his head.

She snorts. “More like never been off this planet.” She shrugs. “My parents couldn’t afford to. And now, my husband is a tailor. With his store and my cart, we could maybe afford to in a few years.” She shrugs again. “But why would we need to? The stars hold nothing for us. We have a home and a family here.”

_You would honestly be surprised what the stars hold for you_ , thinks Jack. He remembers having that mentality a long time ago, when anything beyond the stars only promised pain and suffering for the children of Boeshane. Then he went to war and lost his best friend, and it didn’t really matter anymore. The Time Agency and the Doctor showed him that the universe was full of wonders.

But Jack doesn’t know how to convey all of what the universe holds to an ordinary human flower seller on a colony world in a small corner of an even smaller galaxy. Instead, he smiles at her again. “I can understand that.”

“Leev is a world of its own,” the flower seller explains, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “You could get lost in the stretches of forests. Sometimes we like to make a day trip by visiting the river. Picnic around there, swim, pick berries. It’s rather nice.” She raises an eyebrow at Jack. “Not a worldly adventure, but nice.”

“I don’t doubt it,” says Jack, continuing to smile. His vortex manipulator beeps, and he angles his body to discreetly check it without alerting the flower seller. Luckily, she’s busied herself with cleaning her cart, so she doesn’t notice. He checks his notification and blanches. “ _Fuck!_ ” He nods to her. “It was lovely to meet you.”

Jack quickly strides away without hearing her reply. His cruiser is set to leave in twenty minutes. He has to walk across the village to the docking port, or he’ll be stranded in Leev. It’s a pretty place, but he doesn’t want to be stuck here.

He’s walking so quickly that he’s not looking up when he accidentally shoulder-checks a passing stranger. He continues on without turning back; he’s in a rush here with no time to apologize. 

“ _Watch where you’re going! You nearly hit my son!_ ”

It’s something about the voice, a deep rage-struck baritone that’s tinged with a hybrid Leevan accent but still contains traces that remind Jack of Cardiff. Of Wales. 

_A thousand year's time, you won't remember me._

Jack shudders. It can’t be...can it? Ianto Jones died in his arms over a thousand years ago. Jack said his goodbyes in the House of the Dead; he grieved. Ianto can’t be here...now? In Leev?

He whirls around. He can’t see anyone who looks like Ianto. There’s the light-haired flower seller from before, walking away, her hand interlaced with one belonging to a dark-haired man. From her arms, a small light-haired head pokes out. Jade green eyes blink at him curiously.

Jack smiles and waves before turning back. There’s no one familiar here, no Ianto. He accidentally walked into a stranger who yelled at him, and Jack was just imagining his voice sounding like Ianto. It happens to him from time to time, in the oddest of places. His mind likes to play tricks on him, bringing back ghosts of his past.

He better hurry now. He has a space cruiser to catch and only fifteen minutes to get to it.

* * *

**3199**

**Leev**

**Ianto**

The colonists of Leev burn the bodies of their dead rather than bury them, to allow their spirits to float up and join the sky and nature. This is why Rhia Jones-Collins, the first ever president of Leev, the youngest daughter of Huw Jones, and Ianto’s longest-living grandchild, has a plaque commemorating her in the center of her family village rather than a grave.

Ianto stands before the plaque and brushes gentle fingers over it, tracing the letters of her name.

He never met her.

Huw was twelve when Ianto realized that Ariadne now looked older than him. Lies about good genes and youth-enhancing surgeries could only keep her suspicions at bay for _so_ long. Which is why, when Huw Jones was fifteen, his father’s tailor shop burned down with his father still inside.

It had taken Ianto several months to plan the controlled blaze and to leave Ariadne and Huw enough money behind that they would never want for anything. Anything except Ianto, that is.

Ianto didn’t leave Leev; he couldn’t. It’d been his home for so long, and his wife and son were here. Instead, he watched Huw grow to a handsome man, his hair finally dark, and fall in love with a wonderful man. Ariadne had died peacefully after five more decades, a shorter life for a Leevan. Huw and his husband had died eventually too, and then their kids - Alyse, Irina, and Rhia.

He never met any of them, Huw’s husband or their kids, but he helped where he could, anonymously provided money or visited their businesses. None of his grandchildren had had families of their own, but they had also found love. But now, the last of them is gone.

There’s no one left on Leev for Ianto anymore. There’s no graves for any of his family, this plaque the only indication of them. He’d settled down, built a life, ignored his vortex manipulator - not that it ever made any noise, and he’d seen how that went.

It’s time to look for Jack again, and so with a final glance around the Leevan village and with a determined nod, Ianto taps on his vortex manipulator and teleports away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked that. I wanted Ianto to be happy for a bit, but he also needed a taste of what it's like to be Jack. Speaking of Jack...I know, the marketplace. It frustrated me to, but it was necessary. After all, the harder you work for something, the better it tastes...or so I hope. 
> 
> Announcements for the next chapter. There will be a rating increase...so please keep that in mind and check the tags. And we'll be seeing a familiar Time Agent so a chapter that's solely Jack-centric.
> 
> Either way, let me know what else you'd like to see Jack and Ianto get up to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack meets John Hart...several times and in several places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please notice that the rating has been upped from Teen to Explicit; that usually comes with the territory of John Hart. This chapter is a solo Jack adventure that spans over a thousand years. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**3450**

**Vegas Galaxies**

**Jack**

Jack should have remembered, honestly, but in his defense, it’d been almost two thousand years since they last met.

But Jack shouldn’t be surprised when he’s walking through a casino, carrying a luxury cocktail and watching the blackjack dealer’s hands rather than his surroundings -  _ look _ , the dealer had some very deft fingers, and he was imagining what they would feel like against his skin, and is abruptly manhandled to a shadowy corridor, his back pressed against velvet wallpaper.

Suddenly, lips descend on his in a very violent but very passionate kiss, and Jack melts a bit,  _ just a bit _ , because he has made  _ a lot  _ of enemies who would love to kiss and kill him, but he also won’t say no to having the living daylights kissed out of him as is currently being done. A warm tongue probes his mouth, tangling with his own. His teeth clash with the stranger’s, and Jack tilts his head to deepen the embrace, moaning softly when the stranger reaches one hand to grope his hardening cock. 

Their hand slips into his pants and teases his balls slightly before grasping his cock and pulling in long, hard strokes. They add a twist maneuver around his head, which feels  _ fantastic  _ but familiar and has Jack’s eyes narrowing as he moans louder into the kiss. Then his eyes roll back into his head as he comes, slumping against the wall.

It barely takes a second for him to recover from his orgasm, and it barely takes another second for his blaster - sadly, it’s neither the Webley nor his sonic blaster; he misses that old thing - to be pressed under the stranger’s chin. They reciprocate with the muzzle of their own weapon to Jack’s ribs, and Jack only chuckles; he already knows who the stranger is.

“Old age has made you soft,” says Captain John Hart, his own erection on prominent display as he sneers at Jack. He’s ditched the gaudy red military jacket for a more subtle leather trench coat that gives Jack vampiric vibes. Of course, because it’s John, the sleeves are rolled up to reveal a bright and colorful silk lining. “Time used to be, your gun would be up at the same time as your cock.” He leers at Jack. “Still Harkness?”

“Thanks for the orgasm,” Jack replies, rolling his eyes, this time in exasperation. He keeps his gun fixed, forcing John’s head to angle uncomfortably upward. “And why would I drop the name? It’s a classic.” He chuckles. “You still John Hart?”

John shrugs. “For the time being.” He looks at Jack,  _ really looks  _ at him, obviously noticing the new wrinkles and laugh lines, the few odd grey hairs. His expression becomes a bit uncomfortable. “You know,” he begins conversationally, “it’s only been a few years since I last saw you, but clearly, it’s been longer for you.”

“Linear time.” Jack nods. “Two thousand years.” A beat. “So are you here as friend or foe?”

“Believe it or not,” the other man replies, “but I’m not actually here for you. I was here for a fun time, got word you were here.” He rolls his eyes. “So you gonna take the gun down?”

“If you do it too.”

“On the count of three then,” John proposes. “ _ One. Two. Three _ .” With loud sighs, both men slip their guns away, Jack holstering his again, and glance at each other.

Then John darts in to snog Jack thoroughly again, his hand fisted in the other man’s hair. When they separate again: “What are you up to now?” He smirks. “Still with Bikini Cops?”

“Torchwood,” corrects Jack instinctively, and John’s smirk widens. Jack only sighs. “And ironically, I am still an employee, though I am currently on my sabbatical.”

“Excellent!” John rubs his hands together gleefully, suddenly as excited as a child. “As it is, I am currently looking for a partner to run a con with in Eldarii.” He cocks his head. “Are you interested?”

Jack hums contemplatively. It’s been over several thousand years since he’s done anything illegal that hasn’t been for Torchwood, and he does miss the rush of a good con. Then he shrugs again. “Why not? It’s been a while.” John’s expression lights up even further, but the excitement dies down a bit as Jack continues, “One condition.”

John rolls his eyes again. “What is it now? You’re going to say that we have to run a Robin Hood con? Steal from the rich, give to the poor?” He freezes when he sees Jack’s smile grow. “Oh,  _ no _ . You gotta be kidding me; I miss Javic Thane.”

“Too bad,” Jack retorts, frowning. “That’s my condition. Take it or I walk.” He raises an eyebrow. “What do you say?”

After a strained moment or two, John sighs. “ _ Fine. _ But you owe me.” A beat. “And I also want a blowjob.” He gestures to his still-hard cock.

Jack chuckles. “ _ That _ I can do.” Then he slides down to his knees and reaches for the zipper of John’s trousers.

* * *

**3450**

**Eldarii**

**Jack**

Eldarii is a beautiful, lush valley of silvery trees and violet lakes, home to former galaxy-famous opera singer - and now cruel president - Demelza. Her citizens starve, their latest crops having fallen prey to the planet’s bitter chill, while she hosts gala after gala for the planet’s elite. 

Jack and John’s con is pretty simple. Demelza is hosting another gala in honor of her birthday where she will be presented with the Ashira Gem, “a sparkling chunk of opaque space junk” - John’s words. The Ashira could easily buy three planets but sits in Demelza’s vault for the bulk of the Eldariian year. Of course, since Demelza barely believes in modern technology, the former Time Agents could simply drill down into her vault and steal the gem, but stealing it off of her during the gala will be  _ way more fun _ , though Jack’s insistence on wearing perception filters likely kills a bit of the excitement for John.

(“I’m just saying,” John wheedles. “Why would I deny people the opportunity of seeing my pretty face?”

“You can jump around whenever and wherever you want,” Jack reminds him. “I’m linear. And I’m Torchwood. I can’t have wanted posters emblazoned with my face.” He rolls his eyes, thinking of the many he already has. “Or I would prefer not to.”

And of course, John’s scowl only deepens when Jack further reminds him that the gem will be given to Eldarii’s citizen guard who are only waiting for a moment to pounce on their dictator.)

For some reason, Demelza has recently become obsessed with twentieth, twenty-first, and twenty-second human culture - which makes Jack feel ancient, to be completely honest - and has declared her gala’s dress code to be “traditional” black-and-white tie. 

(“Snazzy,” John tells Jack when he emerges from the bathroom on John’s ship in an old-fashioned tuxedo. John himself will be the actual thief so he’s wearing slick leather and synthetic black fabric. 

Jack ignores him.)

The large ballroom in Demelza’s palace where the gala takes place is _enormous_ , with Eldariians and other aliens native to the galaxy milling about, dressed in expensive finery with jewels gleaming on every available surface of skin, fur, or scale. Jack is almost underdressed in comparison.

It doesn’t take him too long to flirt himself to the small area where Demelza sits surrounded by her closest minions and guards. 

“I am Byron,” Jack introduces himself, dipping into an exaggerated bow. “And of course, you need no introduction, Lady Demelza. Legends of your voice are renowned around the galaxies.”

Demelza makes a raspy sound that is likely an Eldariian approximation of a giggle. Eldariians are grey-skinned creatures the same size as humans, but that is where the similarities end. Their skin is actually small individual scales that feel almost slimy but simultaneously dry as Jack takes Demelza’s claw-like hand to press a kiss to the skin there. Their eyes lack pupils, so Demelza’s eyes are just white soulless voids.

Jack suppresses a shiver.

“That is much appreciated, Byron,” she replies, and contrary to her appearance, her voice actually sounds like a collection of melodious chimes. “Why won’t you take a seat besides me? Dinner will be served soon.” Once he complies, her flat white lips come together into a smile; to Jack, it looks more like a snarl. Still, she isn’t unattractive; no one ever is, especially to Jack. “Where are you from, Byron? You appear to be human.”

“I am, Lady Demelza,” he replies, knowing that his perception filter will keep Demelza from focusing on his features but won’t deny her his attractiveness. She won’t be able to properly describe him later on, making any possible wanted posters inaccurate. “I am from a colony world from across the universe, but that doesn’t matter. I am first, and foremost, a traveller, a collector of unique things and people from around the universe.”

“Oh,” Demelza replies with notable interest, leaning closer. “And what brought you to Eldarii? What unique item or person drew your attention here?” She’s clearly fishing for something; there is only one answer she wants.

Jack smiles charmingly. “I would be lying if I didn’t say that the Ashira Gem is what originally piqued my interest, but now that I am here, I can see that there is clearly someone much more valuable here.” Slowly, he creeps a hand over Demelza’s. “You, my Lady Demelza, are the most unique person on this planet.” His smile widens. “Nay, perhaps the most unique person in this galaxy.”

“ _ Oh!  _ You’re too kind, Byron.” Demelza flutters her eyes at him, fanning herself with the hand not covered by Jack’s. “And charming and handsome too.” She leans over to one of her Eldariian minions. “Isn’t he, Asin?” When her minion chitters in agreement, she smirks, and Jack winks at Asin, causing her to blush - or the nearest Eldariian approximate.

Dinner - the best of Eldariian cuisine - is served, but Jack finds it hard to eat knowing that the rest of the planet is fatally starving; he’s seen their villages. Instead, he distracts Demelza and her minions with stories of his travels that are mostly accurate. On the other side of the ballroom, he can see John frantically gesturing for him to hurry it up.

_ Wait for the diamond _ , Jack mouths back. 

Once dessert wraps up, it is finally time for the Ashira Gem to be presented to Demelza. A procession of several handmaidens, shrouded in white robes that make them appear ghost-like, make their way to the throne dais where Demelza and Jack are clustered.

The lead handmaiden steps forward in time to the rhythmic Eldarriian music, finally bowing before Demelza’s throne. She waits for Demelza to lift her head and dismiss her before turning to the dark wooden box in the next handmaid's hands. A hush falls across the ballroom as Demelza approaches the box and slowly lifts the lid, only to find the box empty. The gem, the fist-sized rainbow of brilliance, is missing.

Jack covers his ears to mute Demelza’s shrill shriek, high-pitched enough to shatter several nearby glass windows. The ballroom erupts into nervous chatter and moans of fear.

“ _ My gem _ !” Demelza screams. “ _ Where is my gem _ ?”

“Looking for this?” John calls, making himself visible, although the perception filter is still at play. He lifts the gem high into the air, and it sparkles even more brightly as it catches the Eldariian sunlight.

Demelza’s depthless eyes narrow. “ _ Guards _ ,  _ grab that human _ !”

With a wicked cackle and a flash of golden light, John teleports from the ballroom, taking the diamond with him. He’ll be handing it off to the citizen guard any moment now.

“You,” Demelza snarls, turning to Jack. “You’re a human too!”

Jack shrugs. “Yeah, so?” Then thumbing the teleport John left him, he offers one last smirk to Demelza. “I lied; you’re the least unique person in this galaxy, maybe even this universe. After all, dictators are a dime a plenty, and that’s the sad truth of it.” 

* * *

**3450**

**John Hart’s ship**

**Jack**

John is leaned across the doorframe to his bedroom, waiting for Jack, when Jack finally teleports onto his spaceship. Immediately, John yanks Jack by the collar of his tuxedo and shoves him against the wall. He bites Jack’s lower lip savagely. “Took you long enough.”

“I stopped to take in the view,” Jack growls back, tossing the teleportation device across the room. He winces only slightly when it collides loudly with the floor before fisting a tight hand in John’s curls and violently capturing John’s lips. He molds himself against Jack’s front with a gleeful purr. “What about you? You should’ve taken longer.”

In between wild kisses, John snickers. “Let’s just say that the citizens never received their gemstone.” He lifts a gleaming rainbow crystal that Jack immediately recognizes at the Ashira Gem from his inside pocket, smirking widely. He tosses it from one hand to the other. “C’mon, Jack. Drop the do-gooder act. Let’s sell this gem, and live like kings.” A beat. “Let’s live like Demelza.”

Enraged, Jack shoves John away and flips him around, pinning him to the doorframe with his forearm braced across the other man’s neck. “ _ John _ !”

John’s smirk widens. “If you wanted to get kinky, Harkness, you just had to ask.” He wriggles beneath Jack, their semi-erect cocks brushing against each other.

Jack hisses, thinking of all the least sexy memories he’s experienced in the last thousand years. He increases the pressure on John’s throat, and John only groans louder. 

“Tighter,” he demands, thrusting his body forward. His voice drops into a croon that has some interesting effects on Jack’s arousal. “You love choking me during sex.”

Disgusted, Jack stumbles away from John. He crosses his arms across his chest. “For fuck’s sake, John! She’s slaughtered hundreds of citizens, and that was this year alone!” He shakes his head. “She’s on a Torchwood watchlist for dictators. How do you think I knew about her?”

“I thought you weren’t with Torchwood at the moment,” John retorts churlishly.

“ _ Not with Torchwood _ ?” Jack scoffs. “I am Torchwood!” He paces around the small hallway like a restless tiger before finally turning back to the other man. “Look,” he says, “I am giving you one last chance. Hand the gem over to the citizens now, or I’ll leave. And you’ll never see me again.” At John’s disbelieving eyebrow: “I mean it. You know how spiteful and stubborn I get.”

“You can’t play me like that,” John replies, but he sounds uncertain. “You don’t have the upper hand.” Clearly, however, John’s hesitation means that Jack  _ does  _ have the upper hand here; he even rubs the little furrow between his eyebrows like he always does when Jack knows he’s stressed. Finally, John sighs and glances back towards Jack. “Fine! I’ll do it.”

“Lovely.” Jack lifts his head, watching John disappear in a flash of golden light.

John’s gone for more than ten minutes. Jack uses the time to pace some more, chastising himself under his breath for thinking that John would change so quickly. Clearly, John’s right; he  _ has  _ gone soft, slipped out of his old habits. Once upon a time, Jack used to be able to predict John’s next thoughts and actions.

He goes ahead and rifles through John’s liquor bottles, ruing the fact that hypervodka  _ still hasn’t  _ been created. He makes a triumphant noise when he stumbles upon a familiar label he hasn’t seen since 2222 and pours himself a drink. He settles down on John’s plush bunk to drink.

By the time John returns, Jack has finished half the bottle.

“Hey!” John cries, expression outraged when his eyes land on Jack. “That was mine.” He reaches forward and wrestles the bottle from Jack, scowling. “I was saving that. For a special occasion.” He takes a petulant swig from it.

Jack shrugs. “You took long enough.” He raises an eyebrow. “How did it go?”

“The little peasants were extremely grateful,” John shoots back, words thick with sarcasm. Abruptly, Jack is reminded of Owen. “One of them even cried.”

“And?” Jack spreads his arms, and legs, wide. “How did it feel? Doing some good for a change.”

“I felt like a fucking idiot,” complains John, draining the bottle, “handing them a gem worth more than they could ever earn in their miserable lives.” Violently, he turns and throws the empty bottle against a wall where it shatters into tiny shards. Jack doesn’t even bat an eye, which infuriates John even more. “I think you should go. You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

Except Jack’s satisfied and feeling nostalgic. “I don’t you really mean that.” He waits as John strides closer, likely hoping to get in a good punch, and then he sweeps John’s legs out from underneath him, heaving him onto the bunk. He clambers on top, straddling the other man, grinding his ass back against his soft cock, smirking when he feels it harden just a bit. “C’mon,” he purrs into John’s ear. “I’ll even let you fuck me this time.”

Several rounds of incredibly hot, sweaty sex later, John falls besides Jack, panting. Jack slumps against the pillow, thoughts hazy; it’s been a while since he was fucked until he felt boneless. John was always good at that, knowing how to take Jack out of his mind when he needed it. So was Ianto. 

“Okay,” John says when he gets his breathing back under control. “But no seriously, you need to go.”

* * *

**3457 - 4331**

**Various areas around the universe**

**Jack**

(The first time it happens, Jack’s sure it’s an accident.)

He’s leaning around a corner, sheltered behind the shell of a bombed-in house on a war-torn planet, when there’s a sudden voice drawling in his ear: “So what are we doing here?”

“ _ Jesus Christ _ ,” Jack cries, blaster raised and finger brushing the trigger, before he gets a good look at his surprise visitor and drops his guard. And his weapon. “I could have blown a hole through your heart, John.”

John Hart, back in that familiar gaudy red coat, smiles gleefully, spreading his arms wide. “Did you miss me?”

“What  _ the fuck _ are you doing here?” demands Jack. He quickly peers past the house to get a look at the rest of the rows of houses, all similarly destroyed. His target sits safely almost several blocks thataway, and his window of opportunity to slip past the bombs without wasting time dying and coming back is quickly shortening, especially now that Jack’s here.

“Ah ah ah!” John wags a playful finger at him. “I asked first.” He nods towards Jack. “What are we doing here?”

“Torchwood mission,” Jack bites out in reply. “My target is sitting behind several force fields and tanks. I have one shot to take him out.”

“Why didn’t you say?” Before Jack can protest, John disappears in a blaze of golden light; a moment later, he reappears, holding Jack’s wriggling target by the throat. He tosses the alien - a pale lavender with tentacles - to the ground. “One shot?” Swiftly, his own blaster is in his hand. There’s a faint  _ hiss _ , and Jack watches in horror as John shoots his target in the head. “Done!” Then he blows imaginary smoke from the muzzle of his blaster.

“You just killed a terrorist dictator,” Jack says slowly, eyes wide in shock.

John shrugs. “Hey, at least I got to kill someone.” At Jack’s incredulous expression: “The murder rehab really doesn’t work the second time around either.” When Jack keeps gaping at him, he rolls his eyes. “It’s only been a few months since Eldarii for me. I was getting bored, but I’m getting the sense I’m not welcome here.” Him reaching for his vortex manipulator seems to finally jar Jack to his senses.

“Wait, wait,  _ wait _ ,” Jack cries, hand reaching out as if he can force John to stay behind through sheer willpower. His shoulders relax a bit as he regains his composure and his familiar grin. “You finished my mission for me. May I at least buy you a drink?”

Later, he thanks John further by sucking his brains out via his cock.

(The second time, John shows up in the middle of Jack’s Torchwood mission, he rolls with it but is still skeptical. The third time, however, Jack now knows better, but if John wants to keep spending time with him and it leads to them helping others, he doesn’t mind.)

“ _ Really _ ?” John says very judgily into Jack’s ear two hundred years since they last met, slipping on the bar stool besides him. “This planet?”

Without blinking, Jack takes another long dredge of his mead. “Not my choice.” He scowls at his drink. “The liquor here is horrible.”

“The company’s not bad.” John casts an appreciative look around the bar, leering at the young skimpily-dressed people dancing to something that sounds vaguely like 1970s rock and roll from Earth.

Jack sighs. “Don’t have time for them.”

“What are you here for?”

In response to John’s question, Jack nods to the dance floor where a pale-skinned humanoid girl is grinding against several scaly creatures with questionable haircuts. “Behold,” he says dryly, “the princess of this galaxy. She’s sixteen standard years and snuck away for quick snog in a bar. In about,” - he checks his vortex manipulator - “ten to twenty minutes, she’ll be kidnapped and brutally murdered in the alley, hence destabilizing this galaxy’s monarchy and leading to the slaughter of millions.”

“And how do you know?” asks John, signalling to the bartender for a drink. He takes one sip and sets it down, spitting and coughing. “Yeah, you were right. This is swill.” The bartender scowls at him, and John winks back.

“One survivor travels back in time,” Jack says, drumming his fingers against the bar, “and tells Torchwood.”

John nods. “And so they sent the former Time Agent.”

“The current leadership doesn’t know about that.” Jack snorts. “Don’t agree with their ways either. I’m thinking it might be time for Captain Jack Harkness to take control again.”

“That sounds incredibly boring,” John tells him, rolling his eyes. He glances behind him. “Oh, look. Your princess is gone.” His eyes narrow as he grins.

Jack’s head whips towards the dance floor, eyes wildly darting around, and he swears. “ _ They’re early! _ ” he cries in disbelief. “ _ What kind of kidnappers are early _ ?”

“Good ones,” John reminds him. “We were.” But he’s ignored by Jack who is storming towards the alley and doesn’t want to be reminded of their sordid past. He slips off his stool and finds Jack in an alley where two burly scaly aliens, the same ones the princess was dancing with, dragging her down the alley as she shrieks.

“Don’t move,” one of them growls, pressing a razor-sharp blade under her chin, “or I’ll cut you to strips.”

“Hello, gentlemen,” Jack says, his booming voice causing the aliens to flinch, “and lady.” He winks towards the struggling princess, who still blushes brightly despite the knife to her throat. “What’s going on here?”

The alien draws a gigantic blaster and aims it at Jack’s forehead. “I can and will kill you if you don’t leave now.”

John eyes the gun and scoffs. “Overcompensating for something?” He nods knowingly towards the alien’s groin, and his partner pulls his own weapon and aims it at John. “Oh, please, do you even know how to use that thing?”

“Don’t test him!” the princess shrieks, but both former Time Agents ignore her.

“Actually,” Jack drawls, “I was wondering the same thing.” His own hand is drifting for the weapon holstered to his hip, which the aliens notice. One of them steps forward menacingly, and Jack chuckles in response. “Please, like you can actually hit your targ-”

There’s a loud  _ bang  _ as the alien pulls the trigger, blasting a gory hole through Jack’s forehead, and he slumps forward, pain sparking  _ everywhere _ , and then he feels no more.

When he gasps back to life, John is standing there to offer him a hand. Jack slowly heaves to his feet, leaning on John for support, and stiffens when he notices two scaly bodies laying at John’s feet, blood scattered in little droplets and in sticky pools across the dirt.

“Where’s the princess?” he gasps, eyes wide.

John shrugs. “Safe and sound in her little palace.” He notices Jack’s incredulous expression. “ _ Relax _ , I used my vortex manipulator. She’s been warned never to stray from her guards again. Don’t want her to end up dead.” A beat. “Don’t need you ma-”

The rest of John’s words die muffled in his throat as Jack wrestles him against the bloodspattered brick wall and kisses the living daylights out of him, snaking a hand into his pants to grab at his cock.

The night ends with John’s knees bruised, and the bedsprings of the bed in Jack’s rented room broken.

(From then on, Jack basically lets John do his job for him if he’s around.)

The cave is flooding up with water fast, and Jack has a crowd of human colonist children behind him, a toddler propped one hip and blaster raised in the hand that’s not supporting the toddler, as if he can blast his way out of the cave and lead these children to safety.

The darkness and general lack of space is getting to him, making his breath catch in his lungs and the wall close in. He doesn’t do well in small spaces anymore, not after his two thousand years underground; that’s a wound that even time can’t heal.

There’s a dry voice from behind him. “How do you get yourself into these types of situations?”

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, thanking gods that he doesn’t even believe in. “John,” he gasps as the water laps at his ankles.  _ Fuck _ , it’s reached waistlevel for some of the shorter kids. “ _ John _ . I could  _ kiss you _ , but later! Take these kids,” - he thrusts the toddler into John’s arms and coaxes three more kids to wrap their arms around his legs - “and take them to safety.  _ Now _ !”

Thankfully, John doesn’t even blink. He reaches for his vortex manipulator, cinching his arm tighter around the toddler perched on his hip who yelps, and thumbs in coordinates. He and the four children disappear in a flash of golden light.

As the water begins to creep higher, Jack lifts a young girl onto his shoulders. “Bend your head,” he tells her gently. “Don’t hit yourself against the ceiling. Hold on tightly to my neck.” He takes the youngest remaining child, a six-year-old boy, into one arm and his older sister into his other and tries not to think about Steven.

John reappears, and Jack has to shield his eyes from the sudden light. “The kids are safe,” John tells him. “Gimme me the others.” He takes the young girl onto his shoulders just like Jack had and convinces the boy to climb upon his back. He takes the sister’s hand in his free one before glancing regretfully towards Jack: “I’ll be back for you, I promise.”

“Just go!” Jack growls, and John nods, flashing away.

When John next returns, he finds Jack struggling on his tiptoes, head barely above the water. John holds his breath and latches on painfully-tight to Jack, teleporting them both to freedom this time.

As he watches Jack gasp for breath on the floor of his freshly-stolen spaceship, seven orphaned human colonist children sitting with wide, fearful eyes and towels and blankets wrapped around them, John sighs. 

“What are you doing to me, Javic Thane?”

* * *

**4497**

**Vegas Galaxies**

**Jack**

The last time Jack sees John for a long,  _ long  _ time, they ironically bump into each other in the Vegas Galaxies again and have wild, passionate sex on most surfaces of their hotel room. And three other hotel rooms.

At the end of the week-long libertine romp, John sits on the edge of the bed and pulls his jeans back on, not nearly as enthused putting his clothes on as he was ripping them off seven hours earlier. “This is the last time, Jack,” he says. “This is the last time we’ll be seeing each other again for a while.”

“What do you mean?” Jack asks curiously, sitting up against the headboard of the bed and pulling the synthetic cotton sheet past his waist to protect his lower body from the chill of the room. “Nothing is never the last time between us.” He levels a glance at John, raising an eyebrow.

“Look at me,” John says quietly. “ _ No.  _ Actually  _ look at me _ .”

So Jack does. And he notices what he hadn’t before. The heavy bags under John’s eyes. The new scars and wrinkles. The greying to his brown curls. The weariness to his general demeanor. John’s looking a lot older and a lot more tired.

“I’m forty-five-years-old,” John tells him. “I spent who-knows-how many years at the Time Agency. Spent several more with you. And now.” He sighs. “Now, I’ve spent the last five years of my linear timeline flitting up and down  _ yours _ .”

“Everyone ages,” Jack replies, words drenched with uncertainty. He doesn’t know what John’s trying to get at here, and he doesn’t know if he likes it.

“Everyone but  _ you _ ,” John retorts bitterly. He runs a hand through his hair and glances to the floor briefly. Then he scoffs. “You know what, Harkness, you did what four different kinds of rehabs didn’t. You made me want to be good.”

Jack turns to him and places a gentle hand on John’s shoulder, but the other man moves away. “John,” Jack says futilely, fingers flexing in and out of fists. “What do you want me to say? You’re welcome.”

John’s gaze whips towards him. “ _ No _ . I do not want you to say that, Harkness!”

“What then?”

“Men like me,” John growls, “were not made to be good. We were meant to thrive in chaos.” He stands and slips his shirt and jacket on before coming to Jack’s side to snog him senseless. When they are both panting, John steps backwards. “Goodbye, Jack Harkness. See you around.”

“Goodbye, John,” Jack whispers to the empty hotel room.

In the end, Jack is always left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you like that. I apologize for the lack of Ianto content, but I wanted to explore a bit more of Jack's immortality and his relationship with John Hart and that they do mean something to each other. Hopefully, it paid off. 
> 
> To make up for the focus on Jack, the next chapter will solely feature Ianto...and another familiar but not-so-unfamiliar face. Comment on what you liked in this chapter below and what you think will happen next; I love reading your theories. Also, thank you so much for everyone who has kept up with this fic on a week-to-week basis so far. You really mean a lot to me!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ianto first finds himself kidnapped by River Song and then dragged along time and space for adventures than span almost a millennia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who guessed River Song correctly as the familiar face for this chapter, kudos! I couldn't just have her cameo in one scene with Jack, so I gave her an entire chapter with Ianto. Although no Big Finish audio features heavily (or really at all if I can think of it) in this chapter, I once again do recommend listening to R&J from Lives of Captain Jack Vol. 3, mainly because it's a lot of fun but also because I tried to emulate the chaos of Jack and River meeting across time and space. Except this time it's Ianto and River. And it's mainly linear.
> 
> This River is younger than the River who rescued Jack, and you'll come to see exactly where she is in her lifetime as you read through the chapter.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

**3674**

**Chimeon (and later a spaceship)**

**Ianto**

Chimeon is a humid planet with thick, lush jungles and lavender waterfalls, but trapped within the shell of the artificial atmosphere, walking through the cluttered city streets, Ianto sees very little of its natural beauty. 

Ianto hopped over to this part of the universe over two hundred years ago, following Jack to a planet called Eldarii. Instead of finding Jack, he found a slaughter; the Eldariian citizens had risen up to overthrow their dictator, some semi-famous singer named Demelza. Ianto had chosen to travel from galaxy to galaxy where he has remained for almost two hundred years now.

He’s currently on Chimeon, visiting for a day. The bigger cities are famous for a thick, bitter drink that apparently tastes like coffee, at least according to a few human colonists Ianto has bumped into during his travels, and he wouldn’t be able to call himself Ianto Jones if he’s not going to take the opportunity to try that drink.

Ianto weaves his way through the crowded path, patiently waiting for the pedestrians before him to speed up. 

He’s taken to travelling light, or as light as one can when they are a wandering drifting traveller who is essentially homeless. The rucksack on his back holds three sets of clothing, some toiletries and a medical kit, and the few possessions he’s picked up in the five hundred years. No longer in his suits, he’s gone a bit Jack and taken to wearing a shirt tucked into trousers and comfortable leather running boots. Depending on the weather, he’ll layer on or off a sweater, but he always wears a grey coat, not unlike the one he used to wear when he worked for Torchwood, that falls at his knees. The inside is conveniently layered with pockets, which is where he stows his psychic paper, the TARDIS key, and the sonic screwdriver; the shape of the coat always disguises where the two sonic blasters are holstered on either side of his hips. 

And of course, the vortex manipulator is always on his right wrist, which serves many functions, including some sort of payment device and a translator.

Which is why he should have been prepared when two burly humanoids - both appearing to be, in fact, human - accost him from either side. One of them presses a wicked-looking blade to his side.

“One wrong move,” the humanoid threatening him growls, “and I will split you open for your innards to spill out.”

Before Ianto can reply snarkily or protest, the humanoid and their companion clamp down hands of steel on either of Ianto’s arms, and they disappear from Chimeon, the world slowly dissolving around Ianto.

When it solidifies into a dark room, Ianto finds himself being thrust backwards, towards a bulky silver chair that has clamps for all four of his limbs. This time, he struggles and shouts at the humanoids, “Who _the fuck_ are you? Have you tried asking me to cooperate? Politely?”

“That was not our orders,” the first humanoid growls, still holding their knife. They jab it towards Ianto.

“ _Orders_ ?” Ianto begins laughing hysterically, mind working at a rapid pace. If he manages to wrest one arm free, he might be fast enough to slide one of his sonic blasters from its holster, but will he be fast enough to fire off a shot or two? These idiots didn’t even bother patting him down. “Are you telling me that I was kidnapped by _muscle for hire_ ? How _insulting_!” He punctuates the last statement by swinging his leg up between the second humanoid’s legs, and when they stumble back, groaning in pain, Ianto uses the momentum to yank his arm back.

Swiftly, he slips one of his blasters into his hand and fires a gory hole through the humanoid’s abdomen, who makes a noise of surprise before collapsing to the ground, dead. Ianto pivots, aiming his blaster at the second humanoid who has since relocated while he was distracted. Then a fierce, _agonizing_ pain runs through his side, and he brings his fingers there and finds that they come away scarlet with blood. He glances down only to see the first humanoid’s wicked blade stabbed completely through his stomach, and his lips part in shock.

“Fuck,” he says in rapid disbelief. _I’ve been stabbed_. And he begins to laugh hysterically again, coughing wetly until he starts to gurgle blood. He falls to his knees and then forward as the blade is ripped from his side. And then he dies.

When he awakes with a gasp, he finds that he’s been moved, his arms and legs clenched down against him. The world is dark around him, and judging by the way his breath clouds around him, he’s got something over his head. But he’s not gonna lie there and just take it.

With a loud growl, Ianto starts struggling in his bonds. The clamps around his limbs rattle with his forceful movements, but they don’t give. After a few minutes of futile attempts, he admits defeat and starts yelling.

“Hey! _Hey_!” he cries. “You can’t keep me here forever!” He starts struggling again just to make noise, figuring out that if he goes on long enough, his captors - or captor seeing that he killed one - will come to him and he can strike again. Abruptly, in his movements, he realizes that he’s actually missing a layer; he’s been stripped of his coat. Some wriggling in the chair also determines that his sonic blasters are also gone. 

Well, that’s another step of his escape plan scuppered.

After ten minutes pass in silence, Ianto tries again. “You bastards!” he yells. “Can’t even come out and face me. You can’t keep me here forever!”

“You’re right,” a cool feminine voice agrees, which is unexpected enough that Ianto briefly falls silent. “I can’t.” There’s the sound of heels clicking across the cement floor, approaching Ianto. “Nice accent by the way. What made you choose to go twenty-first century Welsh instead of Scottish this time?” The voice comes from closer this time until a hand swiftly pulls the hood from Ianto’s head.

Blinking and flinching back in the sudden brightness his eyes are flooded with, Ianto squints at the blurry figure of his new captor. Eventually, the image solidifies into a tall, curvy woman wearing a dark-colored jumpsuit with a deep neckline that reveals copious cleavage, and impractical heeled boots. Her eyes are green, cold, and wide, her cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and her hair falls in riotous blond curls. Her lips, painted a vivid red, are parted into a round expression of surprise.

“ _You’re not Jack Harkness_ ,” she says, hand flying to the sizable gun holstered at her hip.

“No,” Ianto agrees. “I’m not.” 

* * *

**3674**

**Chimeon**

**Ianto**

The woman is River Song, and she’s been looking for Jack almost as long as Ianto has. She doesn’t want to tell him what she wants with Jack, but she assures him that it’s not to kill him, seeing how they both know that it would be futile.

“He’s been bouncing around my personal timeline,” she explains. “I just want to know more about him.”

They sit at a cafe in Chimeon, and Ianto finally sips at the coffee-like drink. He can confirm that it is dark, thick, and bitter like coffee, but the similarities stop there. The human colonists were exaggerating, and Ianto had been too hopeful.

“And how was it that I came to be your target?” Ianto asks dryly, still regarding River as suspicious. She’s since returned his possessions, but he’s guarded and skeptical of her as she is of him.

River shrugs, tossing her head back and placing her cleavage on exaggerated display. Still being the red-blooded twenty-first century man that Ianto is, he prides himself on the self-control that keeps him from glancing down. “Let’s just say that I can usually sense something change in time when Jack Harkness is around,” she tells him. “I was passing nearby Chimeon, and it felt like he was here. But it turned out to be you.” She fixes Ianto with an assessing look. “You’re a fixed point in time and space, Ianto Jones, just like Jack Harkness is.”

Those words sound incredibly familiar, too familiar. “Do you know the Doctor?” asks Ianto wryly and watches how River’s eyes flash dangerously. “Relax. Where and when I came from, I knew many of his companions. I’m an ally, not an enemy.” He doesn’t know what she wants with Jack, so he doesn’t mention that Jack himself was a companion.

“Yes,” River replies ever-so-carefully, lips stretching into a wide smirk. “I guess you could say that _I know the Doctor_.”

Ianto sighs. Something, everything, about River, from the flirting to the outfit and the gun to the mystery, tells him that he’s found the female version of Jack. It must just be him; he draws them to him like flies to a honey trap. “I don’t want to know _just how well_ you know the Doctor.”

“Are you _sure_?” River purrs. “Because I would love to know you better. Especially how you came to be like our old friend Captain Harkness.”

And so, in the next ten minutes, Ianto finds himself telling River everything from being spit out by the Rift to being kidnapped by her hired goons and watches as her eyebrows rise higher and higher until they nearly disappear into her hairline.

“That’s quite the story, Ianto Jones,” she says in the end. “And why should I believe you?”

“Because you know the Doctor,” he replies, and taking a gander, he pulls out the TARDIS key and watches River’s eyes widen. “Gifted to me, indirectly, by Martha Jones.”

River takes the key, turning it over in her hands, likely authenticating it. Finally, she whistles. “The legendary Martha Jones!”

Ianto smiles fondly. “She was every bit as the legends describe her.” He accepts the key that River drops into his palm; she takes the opportunity to brush her fingers against the sensitive parts of his wrist, rubbing her thumb over his pulse.

“Alright,” River tells him eventually with a wicked smirk a la Jack Harkness. “You’ve convinced me.” She cocks her head. “What to do with you, Ianto Jones?”

“I’ve been wondering the same,” he admits. “I’ve been wandering this universe for a man who has made it quite hard for me to find him.”

River tosses her head back and laughs, a delicious sound that sends shivers down her spine. “Oh, Mr. Jones. Don’t you know? The only way to find Jack Harkness is to stop looking for him.” She extends a well-manicured hand out to Ianto. “Come with me. Have adventures worth _dying_ for. Maybe you’ll find your boyfriend along the way.”

* * *

**3856**

**Betelgeuse III**

**Ianto**

When Ianto had called River the female version of Jack, he hadn’t actually realized just how much truth was in his words, but the last two hundred or so years have proved him right. Like Jack, River is flirtatious and just as daring but even more lucky. Some of what Jack could have only survived by dying River manages to skate through on thin ice, which isn’t helped by the fact that, just like Jack, River has a penchant for running head-first into danger.

Although their adventures haven’t been linear - rather River flashes through time and finds Ianto when she has something interesting to pursue, there are few things that Ianto and River haven’t done together. They saved a planet from falling from its gravitational orbit and crashing into a sun. They brought down a cult that sacrificed its children. They rescued a princess (or two), but Ianto had to rescue River when the king nearly beheaded her after finding her in the princess’s bed. Now, he has to rescue her again despite the fact that she could rescue herself.

Sighing, Ianto follows the guard down the dark, crammed hallway to another checkpoint of the prison where a second guard awaits.  
  
The new guard glances speculatively at his colleague who jabs a thumb - well, really, a claw - towards Ianto. “This one is here to collect a prisoner.”

“Identification?” the second guard asks, studying Ianto and his simple black trousers and shirt.

Affecting a bored expression which is more real than fake, Ianto fishes his psychic paper from his pocket and passes it over to the second guard.

“Head Warden for Stormcage Containment Facility?” the guard reads off of the paper, glancing up at Ianto skeptically. “And they sent you _personally_ to collect the prisoner, sir?”

Ianto nods. “Prisoner Song is exceptionally dangerous. She’s wanted for almost every possible crime you can think of. Robbery, extortion, murder, conspiracy, kidnapping, forgery, torture,” - he grimaces slightly and drops his voice - “ _castration_ , _dimembering_. And those are only the ones we can name.” By now, the guards’ green fur has blanched, and Ianto stifles his chuckles. “Exactly.” He pauses. “So you can understand why we would like to collect her as quickly and as safely as possible?”

The first guard nods. “I’ll show you the way,” she tells him, and he resumes following her down a hallway that becomes even more narrow until Ianto is forced to shuffle through it sideways, almost doubled over. Even the guard, shorter and thinner than Ianto, as is the rest of her species, hunches slightly.

Eventually, they arrive before a tiny, _tiny_ cell that is practically just an airing cupboard with bars. Even Jack’s bunker was bigger than this, Ianto muses. River sits on a thin bench, legs crossed at the ankles, head down, curls knotted into a bun. She’s dressed in the shimmery elegant gown she was snatched from the royal dinner in. 

“Prisoner Song,” the guard announces, and River’s head whips up, curls bouncing with the force of the motion, cherry lips curling into a familiar smirk at the sight of Ianto, “you are here to be collected by Head Warden Jones. You will be transferred to Stormcage.”

“ _Splendid_ ,” River purrs. She stands and steps out of the cell, forcing Ianto to press himself flat against the hallway wall as he fastens the thick clamps onto her thin wrists. “Ouch.” Her complaint is met by hard eyes from Ianto as he finally lets some of his irritation bleed into his expression, and River’s smirk widens. “You can tighten the handcuffs if you want. It’s just, I usually prefer some negotiation with my kink.”

While the guard scoffs in disgust, Ianto rolls his eyes.

To his further irritation, the guard insists on accompanying Ianto back to their spaceship. When they are finally free of her, Ianto undoes the locking mechanism of the clamps and watches River rub the red lines from her wrists, hissing. She pours herself a drink and then glances up to see his angry expression.

“What?” she asks innocently.

“Are you _bloody kidding_ with me?” Ianto hisses, almost vibrating with anger. “I was halfway to our rendezvous point when I found out that you’d been arrested!” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I had the files in hand. All you had to do was distract the baron so that I could get out from the palace unnoticed. Instead, you had to go and _insult_ the baron!”

River hums, obviously unaffected by Ianto’s rage. She takes a long, _long_ sip of her drink before replying. “Do you know that you’re very, _very_ hot when you’re angry? Sinfully hot almost?” She sips dainty and calmly at her drink as Ianto sputters. “I bet Harkness must _love that_.”

“ _For fuck’s sake_!” Ianto shudders. She sounds too much like John Hart for his own comfort. “You could have been beheaded!”

“I wonder what you would be like in bed?” River muses aloud. 

Ianto makes a wheezing groan and slams his head painfully against a wall of the spaceship. “I can promise you one thing. I may keep pulling your arse out of danger when you insist on wedging yourself into life-threatening situations with no regard for your own safety, but I will never, _ever_ sleep with you.”

* * *

**4157**

**Lamai Galaxies**

**Ianto**

The pleasure worlds of the Lamai Galaxies are known for being a quiet paradise, each holiday retreat a high-tech virtual simulation that can be programmed per their guests’ specifications. But these holiday retreats are too realistic and addictive and have been driving their guests to death, drawing River and Ianto to investigate. For some reason, River chose to model their retreat after a nineteenth-century English manor with a handsome oak-panelled library, plush leather couches scattered about and tall bookcases crammed with books everywhere.

It is the elaborately carved wooden double doors of this library that crash open when River and Ianto come charging through, lips practically glued to each other, Ianto’s firm, elegant fingers fisted in River’s riotous curls that have come free from their bun. She’s wearing a red slinky number that clings to her many curves, her sinful black strappy heels dangling from the hand that isn’t currently diving down Ianto’s unzipped trousers. He’s in a twenty-first century tuxedo, feeling every inch a James Bond-type, bowtie loose around his neck, jacket half-slid off, and white dress shirt nearly wrenched open, buttons clattering everywhere.

Outside, in the opulent dining hall with similar dark panelling sits a majestic table laden with almost all the best food you could imagine, its chairs pulled halfway out from when Ianto had lunged out of his seat to lock lips with River, after an hour of flirty conversation that essentially served as foreplay after her foot found its way up his leg and eventually _between_ his legs. 

In the library, Ianto tilts his head to deepen the already passionate kiss, his tongue tangling with River’s. He slams her against the nearest wall, gently cradling her head with his other hand to protect her from the collison. In retaliation, she ruthlessly nips at his lower lip and wriggles her hand around in his trousers, deliberating avoiding his cock, her other coming to tweak a nipple under his shirt. He hisses and then whimpers loudly when River twists his sensitive nipple further, yanking on her curls until her bun comes completely undone.

It is a savage, violent, and heated dance that is not without grace or mercy. After a breathless age of snogging, they break apart, panting. River finally relents and wraps a hand around Ianto’s cock, stroking gently before tightening her grasp. She smirks into Ianto’s shoulder as he moans, lips parting and head falling back as the warm pleasure begins to build at his core, sparks flying up his spine. Then, abruptly, she drops her hand from his cock, bringing it up to toy with the bowtie around his neck, and Ianto _whines_. 

“Remember when you said that this was never going to happen,” she teases, the flash of her cherry-red lips too much for Ianto’s lust-drunk self. She affects a pretty accurate Welsh baritone: “I will never, _ever_ sleep with you.”

Ianto growls. “I could easily not.” But one glance at him - carefully-parted hair dishevelled, shirt pushed half off his broad shoulders, cock poking out from his trousers, lips pink and bruised, colorful hickies lining the hollow of his throat, eyes glazed over - tells another story.

When River, still elegant and mostly composed in comparison, cocks - _yes_ , pun intended - a disbelieving eyebrow, he chuckles darkly and surges forward, lips crashing upon hers again. He takes swift revenge for River’s partial handjob, talented fingers worming their way under her dress and trailing over her breasts. His thumb flicks over one of her hardened nipples and then the other, and she makes a throaty moan, arching to press her body into his hands. 

Somewhere along the way, Ianto finds himself with River’s long legs wrapped around his waist as she grinds her core against the bulge in his trousers. Their lips are wet, hot, and slick as they move against each other, and when they are forced to part for breath again, Ianto mouths his way down the long column of River’s neck, nipping with his teeth, soothing with his tongue. He nuzzles his face into her curls, taking a long whiff of her light floral perfume; despite its refreshing, genuine scent - a stark contrast to the artificial chemicals of the synthetic colognes of the time period, he finds himself missing Jack’s heady fifty-first century pheromones. But still, there is a rich sense to the way River smells, as if she’s drenched in the waters of time itself.

“Enough of this foreplay, Mister Jones,” River says, voice strained. She pushes Ianto to the ground, and he falls with a strangled unsexy yelp, managing to balance himself on his elbows. Then she swiftly straddles him, pulling his trousers even further down and hiking the skirt of her dress up to reveal enticing creamy skin. When Ianto gets a glimpse between her legs, he whimpers deep in his throat, but any thoughts of getting under River’s skirt are immediately banished when she wraps a hand around his cock again, strokes him once, and then slowly sinks down on him.

River rides him to completion until he comes inside her with thoughts and memories of Jack, as always. Then Ianto pulls out and finally buries his head between her legs, skillfully eating her out, her thighs clamped around him and her fingers fisted in his hair, nails raking at his scalp. She comes herself, doubled over, head bowed, her own thoughts full of a certain Time Lord, this one a gangly lover of bow ties.

They lay against the cold tiles of the library floor, panting and glistening with sweat. Ianto is too tired to string together any sentences, but when his brain comes back online several long minutes later, he finds himself saying, “Okay. Now, we’re never, ever going to sleep together again.”

“Oh, Mister Jones,” purrs River, eyes flashing as she props herself up, giving Ianto an eyeful of her bare breasts and torn dress. He finds his cock stirring again. “I think you’ll find that I am insatiable.”

He groans, a reluctant sound that River eventually coaxes to become louder and louder.

* * *

**4333**

**Spica Prime**

**Ianto**

“ _Well, this is unexpectedly kinky_.”

Voice wry, River stands in the narrow doorway of the dark, underground dungeon. Ianto glares back, the chains that restrain his limbs clinking as he moves them pointedly. The air here is chilly and not at all kind to Ianto’s pale, Welsh flesh, all exposed due to the fact that he’s currently not wearing a stitch of clothing.

“Took you long enough,” he retorts. “Now, the sonic is in the inner pocket of my coat.” He nods towards the heap of his clothes bundled in the corner, and River moves towards it, digging for his coat until she pulls his sonic screwdriver out with a noise of triumph.

“You know,” she says, smiling. “You are almost like a discount Doctor.” A beat. “Sonic screwdriver, psychic paper, TARDIS key, and all.”

Ianto frowns. “I’m not a discount Doctor.”

_You’re unique_ , Jack’s voice echoes in his head. _One of a kind, Ianto Jones_ . _There doesn’t exist another one of you in the universe_ . Later, when he thought Ianto was asleep: _What will I do without you_? 

River chuckles as she stalks towards Ianto. The sonic whirs, and then the cuff on Ianto’s left arm falls with a soft clink before River moves to his left arm, then left leg, and finally right arm. “This is really handy.” She turns the sonic over in her arms. “I should invest in one for when the Doctor’s not around. Not a screwdriver though.” She hums. “Sonic lipstick? Sonic trowel?”

With a soft grunt, Ianto drops into a crouch and then stretches, noting how River eyes his body appreciatively. He shakes his sore limbs out. “You do like digging,” he tells her, shivering in the chill. Quickly, he sorts through his clothes and redresses, smoothing his shirt and trousers out before slipping on his coat and boots. A swift pat-down ensures that all his possessions are where he likes them, including the sonic screwdriver taken from River. Then he reholsters his sonic blasters.

“Sonic trowel,” River repeats, more to herself than to Ianto. “I like the sound of that.”

“You would.” Ianto finger-combs his hair into a neater state. Then he turns back to River and scowls at her. “Next time, maybe don’t dilly-dally? I was an hour from being beheaded.” When River chuckles lightly, his scowl becomes more pronounced. “Well, _excuse you_ , but I like my head exactly where it is. I don’t want to find out what it’s like to come back from a beheading.”

Nor does he exactly want to die again. It’s been a while. He’s been mostly living a slow linear life for now, and River’s abrupt jumps into his life have been a bit briefer and infrequent in the last century. She claims that she’s been busy, but she won’t tell him with what, but she does have a look to her that he recognizes, the glazed eyes of a frazzled, stressed student. Not for the first time, he wonders how old she truly is. She says that she’s not immortal like him or Jack and just ages very slowly, but she also doesn’t look any older than her mid-twenties, like Ianto.

“You’re right,” muses River, giving him another appreciative glance. “We wouldn’t want that. You do have a lovely head. Both of them.”

Ianto rolls his eyes. “Let’s go.”

“Not going to tell me how you ended up in the president’s dungeon, are you?” River teases, expression mischievous.

“No, I’m not.”

He’s not going to tell her that he chased Jack’s teleport signal to this planet only to find no Jack and get arrested under a warrant looking for a tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed human. Ianto doesn’t think his immortal heart can bear this disappointment much longer.

* * *

**4649**

**London**

**Ianto**

It’s been almost a thousand years since Ianto met River Song, and for once, they aren’t on an adventure. Rather, they are dining in a restaurant in a London transformed by the future. Ianto visits Earth ever so rarely since it hurts to see it so changed, but River begged, her eyes glittering with excitement, and Ianto felt obliged to let her have her way. Still, his surroundings have him stiff; he can still see the traces of the city he’d fell in love with when he was young and idealistic - well, idealistic for Ianto Jones. Here is where he found himself, found Torchwood, met Yvonne, fell in love for the first time with Lisa. Here is also where his life fell apart for the first time.

“This isn’t what it was like in the twenty-first century, was it?” River asks, drawing his attention back to her, She twirls a fork full of pasta - the restaurant advertises itself as authentic Italian - but doesn’t bring it to her mouth. She’s giving Ianto a distraction, for which he’s grateful.

He shakes his head. “Lot less flying cars,” he tells her, and she chuckles, trading her fork for a sip of her wine. “You’ve been, haven’t you?”

“The Doctor has taken me a few times.”

Ah, yes. The Doctor. The mystery man - or rather, Time Lord - in River’s life. Over the last thousand years, Ianto has gotten a fairly good idea of how much the Doctor means to River. In a way, Jack is Ianto’s Doctor, both equally mysterious and elusive. 

Their conversation is interrupted by a humanoid waiter pouring a refill of River’s wine. The slight inhuman quirk of their ears is the only sign of any alien ancestry. 

Once they’re gone, River swallows and tucks a curl behind her ear. She appears almost nervous and hesitant, which Ianto finds odd. If there’s one thing he knows about River Song, it’s that she _does not_ get nervous.

“Ianto,” she begins, and Ianto’s heart drops to his stomach at her tone, dreading the worst. “This may be one of the last few times we’ll be able to see each other like this.”

“What happened?” he prompts, voice gentle.

“My name is River Song,” she tells him, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his. He glances down in bewilderment. “But it is also Melody Pond. I’ve been studying archaeology at Luna University in the fifty-second century, and I am about to graduate.” A beat. “I won’t be able to come to see you as often.”

Ianto raises an eyebrow. So that’s what it was. He was right in that River had looked like a frazzled student last time they met. “And?” River glances down briefly. “Why does it sound like you’re dumping me?”

Her head whips up in alarm. “ _Oh, no, no, no_ ,” she says hurriedly. “I like you, Ianto Jones, I do. We have fun together. But.” She sighs. “I have two too many men confusing my love life already.”

He chuckles. “Relax, River,” he replies, tone wry. “I’m not exactly in the market shopping for a new girlfriend either.” His shoulders slump, and his voice takes on a note of sadness. “I just need to find Jack.”

River’s hand tightens over Ianto’s. “You will find him,” she reassures him. “I’m sure of it, sweetie. And while you’re still looking, I will be there. Just not as much as I could before.”

“The fact that you can be there at all,” he tells her, “is enough. All my friends are long-dead or die in front of me. It’s nice to have you, someone who is guaranteed to be sticking around for a while.” He snorts. “And one day, you’ll tell me your secrets.”

“It’s just my moisturizer,” she replies unblinkingly.

Later, they return to the penthouse they’ve booked and drink plenty of champagne, laughing and sharing stories. Later, they fuck out on the balcony, and then River kisses Ianto one last time before she teleports away with her own vortex manipulator. It feels like a goodbye despite her reassurances, but Ianto knows that she’ll be back, eventually at least.

Either way, if there’s one thing Ianto Jones knows how to do, it’s wait, biding his time until the universe takes pity on him. He’ll wait for River if she comes back. And just like Jack waited for his Doctor, Ianto will wait for Jack.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...what did you think? I hope you enjoyed that; I certainly enjoyed writing River. She was a little less tricky than John but no less fun. I would apologize for the lack of Jack content this week, but you did get a whole Jack chapter last time, so I think that it's made up for. I really just wanted Ianto to have some fun; immortality isn't all grieving and death. It's also (kinda) life. Plus, him and River sounded like a hilarious combination I needed to see/write. It also meant that I could spend some time exploring the River/Doctor dynamic versus the Ianto/Jack dynamic and their parallels.
> 
> This is the second chapter of the arc I call time-passing, because you get to see flashes of Jack and Ianto explored through their interactions with one character alone. Next chapter is the last chapter of this arc and goes back to a few more traditional elements, not dissimilar to some of the earlier chapters. Jack goes through a whole flash of emotions, and Ianto keeps chasing him. I can also promise a few more familiar faces and places...maybe even another Doctor Who cameo? Who do you think it could be? Tell me your theories about the next chapter and the rest of the fic; I love hearing from everyone!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Ianto approach the fifty-first century, including some familiar places and some familiar faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the last few chapters! This one is a bit of a doozy; it's end of the time-passing arc and features...quite a lot to be honest. Jack goes through a whole range of emotions, and as always, Ianto follows him. I won't say much besides that no Big Finish audios play heavily into this chapter. 
> 
> Also, I'm sorry, and you'll see why soon enough.

**4753**

**Bora**

**Jack**

“Papa, Papa!” squeals the little dark-haired girl as she runs into Jack’s outstretched arms, and for a moment, all Jack can see is his little Melissa. 

But things have changed. Melissa - rather, Alice - and Lucia were well over two thousand years ago. Now, Jack has eight-year-old Eleanor, whom he playfully hoists onto his shoulders as she giggles, and the twins, chubby-cheeked Bea and green-eyed Bash, both four years old and currently launching themselves at their papa’s legs. He stumbles slightly, but Eleanor has learned to hold on solidly to her papa’s neck, allowing Jack to concentrate on taking his younger children’s hands in his. He leads all three troublemakers to the sunny, flower-filled meadow behind their home.

“I’d say you’d break your neck,” calls Salinger, Jack’s striking husband, from where he’s sitting on the picnic blanket, “but we both know that you can bounce back from that.” Immediately, catching sight of their other father, Bea and Bash slip from Jack’s hands and dash to Salinger who takes Bea in his lap and sits Bash beside him.

As he kneels to allow Eleanor to dismount from his shoulders, Jack returns his husband’s heady smile with one of his own, full of seductive promises for the night, after their children are well-tucked into bed. Eleanor wanders away to the pond several feet away where both of her fathers can keep a solid eye on her, and Jack leans into Salinger’s side, allowing his husband to drape a comfortable arm along his broad shoulders. Daringly, he reaches a hand for the platter of sandwiches laying uncovered on the blanket.

“You really couldn’t wait for me, could you?” an amused feminine voice asks as their wife Nessa emerges from the house, a platter of little cakes clutched in one hand, a closed bottle of sour drink in the other, using her foot to kick shut the door to their kitchen. “How rude.” Her tone is one of mock-affront.

Nessa’s a petite blond woman with the body of a graceful dancer. Salinger is olive-skinned, dark-haired, and with unusual green eyes. Nessa is brash and assertive while Salinger is quieter and more calculating, but both have hearts large enough to contain multitudes of the universe, and Jack is madly in love with both of them.

He didn’t come to Bora, a sunny and paradisiacal human colony planet, looking for a husband and wife, but one fateful meeting at an art gallery changed all three of their lives. Now, Jack has a family and a home, and he wouldn’t trade any of that for the world. He’s the happiest he’s ever been in the last few hundred years.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that all the darkness has been miraculously vanquished from Jack’s life, but the nights he spends screaming himself hoarse from nightmares are fewer when he’s wedged between Nessa and Salinger in bed. He feels lighter, smiles more often. He’ll never be the same light-hearted, flirty man he was with the Doctor again, but he comes close.

Later, after Eleanor is done playing with the duck-like creatures in the pond, she’ll come clamber into Jack’s lap; out of all three parents, she loves her papa the most. Bea leans against Salinger’s chest as he feeds her a sandwich in little bite-sized pieces. Bash naps, curled up in his mother’s lap like a cat. 

Quietly, Bash narrates a high-octane adventure from his childhood involving his elder sister and a hoverboard. He is a particularly skilled raconteur and never fails to make Jack laugh and Nessa’s lips curl into a wide smile. 

Jack strokes the fine hair on Eleanor’s head as she finally drifts off. Then, with all three children asleep, the three parents carry their children inside and tucked them into their respective beds for an afternoon nap. Then they gather before the fireplace themselves and play cards, drinking and laughing as they bide their time until dinner.

“You cheated,” cries Nessa, giggling as she tosses down a losing card, conceding her defeat to Salinger. Her mouth forms an attractive pout as she sips from the long-necked glass bottle, Jack’s cock stirring at the sight.

“It wasn’t cheating,” Salinger replies, reaching over to twirl one of of Nessa’s curls around his elegant finger. “I actually know the rules of the game, unlike you two ruffians.”

“Whatever you’d like to claim, Sal.” Jack presses an affectionate kiss to the hollow of his husband’s neck, watching as he grimaces at the nickname he so despises. “I _actually_ know the rules of the game and have been playing for much longer than you’ve been alive.”

Nessa and Salinger know about Jack’s immortality, but they do not know the cost at which it comes at nor have its full implications hit them. Jack is determined to keep his young husband and wife from truly finding out.

* * *

**4761**

**Bora**

**Ianto**

Bora is a bright tropical paradise, completely fitting for a human colony world named after the Earth country of Bora Bora. The pale Welsh boy in Ianto Jones balks at the dazzling sunlight.

The planet isn’t too large, and its main population is straggled along the beach abutting the emerald waters of the ocean, overlooked by the mostly abandoned craggy cliffs. The small community of the largest town immediately reminds Ianto of Leev, the home he hasn’t thought about in over a few hundred years.

The lone pub at the base of the cliffs is mostly empty, with most colonists away working in the more distant factories or out in the waters, but there is a wrinkly-faced man with wispy white hair tending bar and serving the few customers. “Haven’t seen you around before,” he tells Ianto in a thickly-accented voice. “Where are you visiting from?”

“Here and there,” Ianto replies, slipping onto a stool. Idly, he taps the counter of the bar as the man pours him a glass of the local brew. It isn’t too bad, he notes as he sips at it, just a bit too strong for his tastes. “I’m here looking for someone.”

The man chuckles, causing Ianto to raise an eyebrow. “No, no, don’t take offense. You would just be surprised how many come to Bora looking for others. They often find themselves staying behind to form their own lives.”

“Well, that’s not my plan.” Ianto offers the man a smile. “I’m looking for a man, tall, blue-eyed, too pretty for his own damn good. Usually goes by Captain Jack Harkness but could also be going by any other name.” A beat. “Flirts with everyone.”

The man’s tan skin had paled at the sound of Jack’s name, his eyes drooping with sudden sadness. “Oh, you are looking for Captain Harkness,” he repeats.

Ianto’s own eyes narrow with suspicion. “ _Yes?_ ”

The man now essentially looks disheartened, but there is still a glimmer of steel in his eyes along with suspicion to match Ianto’s own. “That man has already suffered enough,” he says, tossing his dishrag over his shoulder. “How can I determine that you’re looking for him with good intentions in mind?”

_Jack’s already suffered enough?_ Ianto’s heart thuds painfully in his chest. He lifts his right arm up, stripping back his sleeve to expose the vortex manipulator. “I’m presuming you saw this on Jack’s left wrist often enough.” The man nods cautiously, and Ianto reaches inside his pocket to pass the man his psychic paper.

He doesn’t know what the psychic paper tells the man, and he never really finds out, but the man’s eyes widen some more, the suspicion slowly fading away. He nods again, handing the paper back to Ianto who slips it back into his coat pocket. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones, but you’re here almost two years too late to find Captain Harkness. He left when the rest of the Harknesses died.”

“The rest of the Harknesses?” echoes Ianto softly. There is a bit of a hollow feeling in his chest; it’s not jealousy, no. He’s not so delusional to think that Jack hadn’t moved on; Ianto had been an ordinary Welshman in ordinary twenty-first century Wales. Having almost reached the fifty-first century himself, Ianto can understand why Jack had often longed for the future. Besides, Ianto has fallen in love, had families and children of his own, and built his own life. No, that hollow feeling in his chest is dread.

_Captain Jack, the veteran of a horrid war he refused to name. His quiet Salinger, the most talented artist this colony has ever seen. And of course, the fiery but wise Nessa. They were adored by the town. Nessa was known by all, the president’s daughter, and everyone welcomed Jack and Salinger, the two offworlders._

The old man’s words ring in Ianto’s head as he climbs up the cliffs, legs straining. Up here, with only open space and the stretch of emerald ocean before him, he can understand why Jack, the endless pursuer of rooftops, liked it on Bora. It’s certainly beautiful, even with the sun searing down on Ianto, his coat slung over his shoulder.

_They had three children. Eleanor was nearly sixteen and took after Salinger, but she had Captain Harkness’s charm. At twelve, Bea was sweet but with her mother’s assertiveness. And Bash had both his papa’s way with words and aged eyes to match his mother’s wisdom. Those children had the brightest futures I’d ever seen_.

The mansion, or rather, its burnt shell, is perched on the far edge of a cliff, looking right out at the water. Behind it is a meadow and pond, both obviously artificially-created but still idyllic. The mansion is large, stretching up for at least two stories, with many large windows to let in the light. It’s an abrupt difference from the dank underground Ianto remembers the Hub to be.

_No one knows who set the fire; no one understands why. The captain was brash, yes, but he didn’t make enemies easily. It was almost as if he was avoiding conflict. And he loved his husband, wife, and children ever so deeply. When they died, something in him broke. He stayed behind for a few months, but he wasn’t the same man. Eventually…he just left_.

“That’s what Jack does,” Ianto mutters to himself, gazing upon the remains of Jack’s former happy life. “He runs. In the wake of tragedy, he runs.”

Two immortal men, doomed to be unable to lead normal, happy, _mortal_ lives. Ianto understands; he has been there himself, lost Ariadne and Huw to his own paranoia. He’s lost other lovers too, but he’s mostly kept himself purposely drifting. And Jack’s had several thousand years more to learn, but Ianto Jones knows Jack Harkness. He knows that the lesson never stuck. Jack will keep trying, and Jack will keep losing. And Ianto will keep following in his wake. 

Because he loves him, with every fiber of his immortal soul. So he’ll follow Jack to the ends of the universe, and to the end of time if he has to.

* * *

**5009**

**Cardiff**

**Jack**

_A thousand years’ time, you won't remember me._

“Oh, Ianto Jones,” Jack scoffs, kicking at the dead grass with the tip of his boot. He’s donned the greatcoat and Webley, navy shirt and gray trousers and brown boots, all for this specific occasion. “You were wrong.”

_Nobody knows more than I do!_ echoes Ianto’s voice in Jack’s mind, indignant, frustrated, borderline arrogant in a way that only Ianto could be.

“I do remember you,” Jack tells him. “Three thousand years later, Ianto Jones, and I remember you.” He drags a hand over his face, rubs at his dry eyes. “How could I forget you, Ianto Jones? I carry you forever in my heart.”

There is no reply; there never is, not in half-dozen times Jack has come to visit. How can there be? Jack shakes his head and continues staring downwards.

Time has weathered the simple stone gravestone, but its inscription is still legible: _Ianto Jones, 1983-2009_ . _Loving brother, uncle, and friend_.

There’s no profound quote or anything, which amuses Jack greatly, because Ianto would have hated that. Briefly, he wonders who chose the inscription before deciding that it was probably Rhiannon, the sister he never met. (And at the worst points of his depression, when Jack imagines that Ianto never died, that they had longer, he imagines meeting Rhiannon and her children, introducing Ianto to Alice and Stephen, family dinners with Tosh and Owen alive.)

Any of Ianto’s descendants have long since died off, but more than a thousand years ago, the few times Jack had visited then, he’d found the gravestone adorned with roses and bottles of whisky, both of which he knows that Ianto would have appreciated. (The roses especially. Ianto always complained about never getting roses, which caused Jack to buy him a bouquet every day for two weeks until Ianto put his foot down.) Now, there is only dead grass and weeds, which Jack does his best to clear as he sits and leans against the stone. He’s not stupid enough to imagine some nonsense like, if he closes his eyes, he’ll be able to feel Ianto embracing him through the cold stone, but he does lean closer nonetheless. 

“I’ve lived a life since I last saw you,” Jack tells him dully, settling his head against the stone. He sighs. “Several, in fact. And much, _much_ more if you start the stopwatch from the last time I saw you in the flesh.”

He runs fingers against the weathered stone, feeling its roughness against his skin, tracing over the inscription. 

“Loved and lost...that’s all I ever seem to do.” His tone becomes bitter. “I was happy for once. Had a family. Had a husband and a wife and kids. And they were taken from me. I lost them.” He chuckles darkly. “Just like I lost you. I always do. Lose people that is.” A moment later: “And people expect immortality to be some kind of paradise. Immortality is hell.” He affects a Scottish accent: “ _Immortality isn't living forever. That's not what it feels like. Immortality is everybody else dying._ ” He drops the accent. “That was the Doctor. Of anyone, he’d understand. He might have lost even more than me.”

And boy hadn’t that been a kicker when Jack had run into the Doctor a few hundred years back and had found him wearing John Frobisher’s face. Although that was one wound that time had dulled, it’d taken Jack much longer to warm back up to the Doctor than it usually did after a new regeneration. 

Jack crosses his legs at the ankle, stretching out some more. “Still, it’s not all bad.” He snorts goodnaturedly. “Saw John Hart again a few times, which you’d hate. He hasn’t changed much.” He furrows his brow, thinking back to their late meeting and John’s goodbye. “Took another sabbatical from Torchwood. I think I’m their longest-working employee, which means that they owe a hell amount of overtime pay.” He chuckles, body feeling lighter. “Also saw River Song a few times. I keep telling you; you two would get along like a house on fire.”

He rambles on to Ianto until the sky fades to dark, getting truths off his chest that he’s held in for centuries. Soon, however, there’s a beep from his vortex manipulator, signalling that it’s time to go if he wants to be able to jump off-planet again. 

Rising to his feet, he stretches out his limbs. Then he strokes along the top of the gravestone. “Goodbye, Ianto Jones. I love you.”

Just for the heck of it, Jack walks through the Plass, which is startling in how it no longer resembles the one he knew. He strides quickly and reaches the other side, mind flitting through his future plans.

It’s a shame. If Jack Harkness had been a moment slower or spared one last glance for the Roald Dahl Plass, he would have noticed the tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed man he’d only known in suits appear in a flash of light, disappear onto the invisible lift, and descend into the Torchwood Three Archive.

But as time, space, and the universe will have it, Jack Harkness missed Ianto Jones by just a few minutes.

* * *

**5078**

**Boeshane Peninsula**

**Ianto**

“It’s beautiful here,” Ianto muses as he climbs up the grassy sand dune and sits down next to the young human woman. He gazes up along the stretch of beach, at the pale blue water, foaming white where it creeps upon the shoreline, a cluster of tan buildings forming abstract shapes in the distance. His voice drops to a murmur: “I knew it was beautiful, but I didn’t know it was _so beautiful_.” The sun blazes down on his back, and he can feel the heat through the synthetic cotton, but he doesn’t mind.

This moment is sacred; this place is sacred.

“Not many people say that,” the woman tells him, chuckling. She has a charming smile that causes Ianto to blush when she turns its full power on him. Her eyebrows furrow together. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around. Are you new to Boeshane?”

“Visiting,” clarifies Ianto. He leans back on his elbows, stretching out along the dune. “I’ve heard a lot about it from a friend.” He sighs. “He spent a fraction of his life here, but it was an important fraction. He didn’t talk about Boeshane much, but when he did, you could hear it in his voice.”

“Sounds like he means a lot more to you than _a friend_.” When Ianto’s eyes widen, she huffs in amusement. “Intuition,” she explains. “I can hear it in your voice. That, and I’m quite good at reading people. Scarily good. My husband complains that it is almost as if I can read his mind.” She grins again.

“Jack is like that too,” he mutters.

Now, he turns fully to face the woman and is struck by her familiarity. She is petite but with a strong build, obviously a woman weathered by rough work throughout her life. Her features are delicate, her cheeks full, her face framed by blond curls, but there is a steeliness to her bold blue eyes that tells Ianto not to underestimate her. Her grin is brilliant, revealing perfect white teeth.

“Tell me about him,” she insists and motions for him to move closer. Bewildered, he complies, leaning his head against the welcoming shoulder of a complete stranger. She wraps an arm around his waist without explanation. She smells of potent pheromones, but to Ianto, she smells like baked bread and fresh sea air, reminding him of his mother.

“His name is Jack,” Ianto says, “and he might be the most infuriating man I’ve ever met.” Despite the heat, the woman’s loud laugh floods his heart with warmth. “He’s so aloof and elusive; he _needs_ his secrets like he breaths.” He shakes his head, sighing. “But he’s so brave and kind. He cares without a fault.”

Be it the location or the companion, Ianto doesn’t know why he rambles so much about Jack to her, but the words never run out. The woman pauses him to interject or ask a question, but he’s the main speaker for at least a few hours as they gaze out upon the sea. Eventually, the sky darkens, and the buildings in the distance light up. 

A tall figure appears on the other end of the beach, accompanied by the two smaller figures of children, just as Ianto’s running out of steam. “Mom,” one of them shouts, voice flutelike with youth. 

The woman laughs gently. “That’ll be Franklin and my boys.” She glances at Ianto. “It’s getting quite late. Would you like to stay for dinner? You can tell me more about what you and your Jack get up to.” She nudges him softly with her elbow.

Ianto’s grateful that the dark cover of evening masks his intense blush. “No, I shouldn’t. I wouldn’t want to impose.” When she continues to insist, he shakes his head: “I really shouldn’t. I have to get going.” Together, they rise to their feet, and then he leans over to press a grateful kiss to her cheek, breathing in the fresh scent of her hair. “Thank you.”

Her eyes are kind as she smiles at him. “It was my pleasure. I hope you find that Jack of yours; you deserve him.” Her smile grows as Ianto gapes at her.

“How did you know?”

“Intuition, sweetheart,” she tells him.

Love blooms in Ianto’s chest, maternal love for a woman he met only hours previous. “Thank you.”

As Ianto sets back up the stretch of beach, he can hear the woman calling for her sons: “Javic! Gray!” He risks one more glance back.

Both boys share similar colorings, sandy curls, fair skin with an even tan, blue eyes, and gangly limbs. The taller boy, the older one, the one the woman called Javic, wears a face of a child, youthful, round, and unlined. The beginnings of his familiar smile are there, but his eyes lack knowledge of any of the pain and age he will gain.

For the briefest moment, Ianto wants to snatch the boy away, save him from the horrors his long future will provide him, but he knows he cannot.

“Javic Piotr Thane!” the woman snaps, some of her steel evident in her tone. “I will not have you climbing the cliffs again.”

The boy makes a noise of complaint, but Ianto grins. “Oh, Jack,” he says softly. “It seems that some things are inherent.” 

* * *

**5083**

**Woman Wept**

**Jack**

Woman Wept has not changed since Jack last visited it. Granted he’s a few centuries too early. The smallest frozen wave comes up to Jack’s ankles while the largest is acres above his head. The air on the planet is cool but not chilly. Jack stands on the coast of the landmass, nearly what would be the lamenting woman’s shroud if the planet was viewed from space, and gazes out at the frozen ocean.

He’s not alone.

There’s a woman standing beside him; she was already here when Jack hiked up the side of the hill. She’s petite and skinny, the top of her head coming up to his chin. Her hair, cut just a few inches above her slight shoulders, is bright blond, curling at the edges, and reminds Jack of Rose. Her features are delicate, but her hazel eyes hold the infinite wisdom of stars and are far older than the rest of her face. Her clothing is bold: a long dusky grey coat that flaps around her ankles, a navy shirt with a bright rainbow, high-waisted blue trousers, and brown laced boots. It couldn’t be more obvious if she was holding a sonic screwdriver.

“Doctor,” Jack says to her, and she turns to him and smiles brightly, bouncing slightly on her feet. This regeneration is obviously much more energetic than the last one.

“Captain Jack!” the Doctor cries in a thick Northern brogue, clapping her hands together, but Jack is not fooled. The sunny disposition is a facade to distract from the deep darkness hidden in the depths of her light eyes, even more than the steely blues of the broody, leather-coated Doctor Jack had first met. “I didn’t expect you here.”

“Fixed point in time and space.” Jack shrugs ruefully. “You had to know I was coming.”

“Well, yes.” The Doctor frowns. “But I was trying to be polite.”

This startles a laugh out of Jack. “That’s not what the Scotsman would have done.”

Instead of chuckling about her past selves like Jack would have expected, like his pinstriped Doctor and bowtie Doctor would have done, her frown becomes more pronounced. Obviously, this regeneration is more complex than he expected. “I learned,” the Doctor replies after a moment, coughing to clear her throat, “that diplomacy opens a lot more doors than calling someone _a_ _pudding brain_.” Her attempt at muddling through a Scottish accent has Jack chuckling, and she scowls at him. “Stop that.”

“Now you sound like the Scotsman,” he tells her. He gives her another assessing look. “You know..”

“ _Jack_.”

“Look, I’m just saying; this regeneration-”

“ _Jack_!”

“Okay, okay!” Jack lifts his hands up defensively, smiling widely. “I’ll back off.” A moment later: “But look, if you ever want to find out just how _flexible_ this new regeneration is, you know who to call.”

“I already know how flexible... _oh!_ ” The Doctor’s expression when it finally dawns on her is priceless; Jack doesn’t think he’s laughed this much in ages. 

They lapse into brief silence before Jack finds himself speaking again: “How have you been, Doctor?”

“Oh, you know,” she offers. “Regenerated. Lost my TARDIS.” Jack winces in sympathy. “Crash-landed on a train in Sheffield.” He winces some more. “Found some wonderful new companions.”

“They still around?”

The Doctor shrugs. “Here and there.” She gazes back over the frozen waves, mind lost in memories Jack doesn’t share. Then suddenly, she turns back to Jack. “They met you actually. Well, a future you.”

“Huh, _really_?” He grins. “Well, warn me when it’s time.” And she nods.

They chat some more, trade stories, share adventures, but the Doctor is no fool either. She can see past Jack’s superficiality. 

“How are you, Jack?” she asks, and when he doesn’t respond: “How are you really?”

Jack’s shoulders slump. “I’m tired, Doctor,” he admits. “Really tired. I didn’t think immortality would be so hard.” _Or so lonely_. He voices that after a moment.

“You could come with me.” The Doctor’s voice is quiet. “Travel with me again. Be a companion.” She gazes speculatively at Jack. “Just you, me, and the stars.”

For a moment, Jack considers it. He really does. He remembers how enticing and exhilarating a life as the Doctor’s companion is. All that running, all the adventures. The lives they saved. A younger Jack wouldn’t have hesitated. Eventually: “No, Doctor. I’m sorry.” A beat. “I don’t think I’m built for that life anymore.”

He’s not that man anymore either.

“Oh.” And to the Doctor’s credit, she does truly sound disappointed, head bowing for a moment. Then her expression brightens again. “Well, if you ever change your mind, that offer is still open.”

“Noted,” Jack replies. “And Doctor?” He pauses. “If you ever need someone in your corner, you’ve got me.” And she nods in understanding.

They continue staring out at the waves, but eventually, the Doctor turns to leave. She tells Jack goodbye and returns to her TARDIS. Jack doesn’t follow.

* * *

**5094**

**Cardiff**

**Ianto**

“So? What’s she like?” prompts Gwen. She leans forward in her chair, legs crossed at the ankles. “River Song, I mean.”

Ianto’s brow furrows as he leans back in his own chair, stretching his arms up behind his head. “How do you even know who she is?”

Gwen waves the question. “She comes up in Torchwood reports. Jack’s had quite a few encounters with her.”

He sighs. “She’s like a female version of Jack.”

Gwen’s eyebrows rise. “ _Really_?”

“Yup.” He shakes his head. Despite the last time having seen River being centuries ago, the memories come back just as vivid and bold. He wants to groan in embarrassment. “She flirts and has a hard-on for danger.” A beat. “Even has her own vortex manipulator.”

“So exactly like a female version of Jack.” Gwen takes a second to absorb that. “So, flirty and reckless, sounds exactly like your type.” She grins lecherously. “Did you shag her?”

“Gwen!”

“Relax, sweetheart,” Gwen replies. “I’m not the type to judge. I shagged Owen after all.” The mention of Owen quiets them briefly before Gwen returns to her questioning. “So... _did you_ ?” Ianto worms in his seat, and her grin grows. “ _You did_! What was she like?”

“Passionate.” He doesn’t look her in the eyes, blushing fiercely, cursing his pale Welsh skin. “Almost as innovative as Jack.” The real Gwen had walked in on them enough times in the Hub to know what he means.

“ _Oooh_. Tell me more.” Gwen gives him an expectant expression, but when he hesitates, she pouts. “C’mon, Ianto, I’m a computer simulation. I haven’t had a good shag in ages.”

“You’re worse than Jack,” he mutters, head dropping so low that his chin is nearly to his chest. Yet he complies, narrating details of the various times he and River shagged, until Gwen’s eyebrows have almost disappeared into her bangs. 

When he’s done, she stares at him, stunned, for a few brief minutes. Finally: “You did say she was innovative.” She chuckles. “So is that all you’ve been doing?” She affects a funny voice. “ _Shagging around space_?”

“I haven’t been shagging that much,” he counters. “I got married.”

At this, Gwen perks up in her chair. “Was she nice? What was her name? His name?”

“Ariadne. Her name was Ariadne.” Ianto bites his lip; he hasn’t thought of his wife in ages. A memory floats into his mind, Ariadne out digging in the garden, her hair shining in the bright sunlight. “She was... _extraordinary_. Kind, beautiful, not afraid to speak her mind.”

“You must have loved her.”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

“She died.”

To his surprise - or rather, not his surprise since it is Gwen after all, she springs forward and wraps him in a tight hug. “Oh, Ianto.” Not for the last time, he marvels at the complexity of the holo-light projectors that cause Gwen to feel solid around him.

When he settles back into his chair, he smiles. “We had a son. Huw. You would have liked him. Clumsy kid.”

“Now, you as a father I wish I had seen,” Gwen teases. 

“It was a nice quiet life,” admits Ianto. “But it wasn’t for me.”

“What part? Normalcy?”

“Mortality.” He inhales sharply. “I don’t know how time passes for you-”

“It doesn’t,” she says. “I shut down when you leave the Archive and only wake back up the next time you arrive. It’s like falling asleep, the blink of an eye.” She pauses. “Jack still hasn’t been by.”

“He will,” Ianto reassures him. “Give him time.” He pauses himself, snorting bitterly. “Time...that’s what Jack and I have too much of.”

When the time comes to leave, Ianto says his goodbyes, but this time, he finds it harder to tear himself from Gwen’s arms, even when he knows she isn’t real. Time is really wearing on him now; he can’t imagine what it’s like for Jack.

* * *

**5094**

**Cardiff**

**Jack**

This time, this time as Jack Harkness approaches the Roald Dahl Plass, barely even recognizing it, the universe is not against him.

Below Jack’s feet, in the cavernous Torchwood Three Archive, Ianto Jones summons the invisible lift with his vortex manipulator. Up on the Plass, the perception-filtered paving stone shifts with a gravelly scraping sound and descends, but Jack is too far and no longer attuned enough to the perception filter to notice.

Ianto steps onto the invisible lift and begins to ascend towards the sky. Jack steps onto the Plass, gazing at where Millennial Stadium used to stand, as he strides forward.

Each moment in time feels frozen, trudging forward, two fixed points in time and space being drawn together. 

The invisible lift finally arrives on the Plass with another scraping sound. Ianto’s too preoccupied with glancing down at his vortex manipulator to check his surroundings. Jack’s lost in a world of his own, hands stuffed into the pocket of his trusty greatcoat. He’s been wearing it more often than not now and will have to find a specialized tailor soon.

It happens slowly. 

Ianto Jones steps off the invisible lift and becomes visible, becomes known to the outside world. A still faraway Jack lifts his head and squints into the distance.

There is a familiar figure standing there, silhouetted against the background of Cardiff. Of their own accord, Jack’s legs begin to stride faster, carrying him closer. The figure grows larger in size, his individual features becoming identifiable.

Dark hair that Jack always knew to be neatly parted but is now curling slightly with length. Stormy eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Youthful features, seemingly frozen in time. A body muscled and broad-shouldered.

The memories come flooding back to Jack. Grief, shock, and disbelief hit him like a freight train in motion.

Ianto, in the woods, dressed like a rentboy, dropping a bloody stick to the ground. _Anytime. By the way, love the coat._

Ianto in a classic suit, hair fluffy, flirting back in front of Gwen. _Careful. That's harassment, sir._

Ianto on his knees, sobbing, Jack’s gun to his head. _I'm not giving up on her. I love her. Can you understand that, Jack? Haven't you ever loved anyone?_

Ianto, eyes wide, gazing at him from the passenger seat with the car, lips parted slightly. _You could kiss me. I mean only if you wanted to._

Ianto, expression trusting as he peers up at Jack when only hours ago he’d been sobbing and shaking, convinced of his own evildoing. _It gave me meaning again. You._

_A thousand years’ time, you won't remember me._

_And I love you, too, Jack. Right then. Best get a move on. Goodbye, Jack!_

Ianto Jones, wearing not a suit but a shirt, trousers, and coat like Jack.

Jack’s heart thuds in his chest at the sheer impossibility. Ianto died over three thousand years ago. Jack saw his body, held him in his arms as Ianto took his last gasping breath. He’s seen Ianto’s gravestone, sobbed near it. Ianto Jones cannot be alive.

Yet he’s standing _so close_ to Jack, in the flesh and larger than life. _And alive_. Despite Ianto’s name on his lips, Jack’s stunned into silence.

Ianto reaches for his right wrist where he wears, to Jack’s immense surprise, his own vortex manipulator. He folds back the leather flap and thumbs in what appears to be coordinates. Jack wills himself to speak but finds that he still can’t.

The air around Ianto freezes and then begins to hum softly, glowing with golden light. There is a bright flare that erupts and fades, taking Ianto with it, and as he disappears, Jack remembers how to breathe again, stumbling forward, hands reaching out for Ianto. He’s not slipping away from him, _not this time_!

“ _Ianto_!” Jack screams, but the name’s lost into the wind, taking everything Jack thought he knew about the last three thousand years with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did you guys think? Genuinely?
> 
> Did I mention that I'm very, very sorry? But I felt that it had been time enough; it was time for the tables to turn and for Jack to chase Ianto now. 
> 
> As I mentioned above, this chapter was the end of of the second arc. We have one more bubble chapter left and then the last two chapters form their own self-contained arc. And I'm super excited for you guys to read them.
> 
> What can I say about the next chapter besides...it's my favorite one of this entire fic. And is very, very explicit. Like very much more than these last few chapters had been. I love it soooooooooo much, and I hope you guys will love it too.
> 
> For now, lemme know what your favorite part of this fic was, besides the end, in the comments. I love hearing from everyone! See you next Thursday!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 5094, Ianto goes looking for Jack Harkness but finds Javic Thane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter Eight! Warning: most of this chapter is much porn and little plot. God, I love this chapter so, so much. It was my absolute favorite to write.
> 
> This chapter features Ianto and Javic Thane, aka young Time Agent Jack. The Jack Harkness we know and love is MIA for most of it, and Javic Thane, for those of you who haven't heard the Big Finish audio Month 25 from the Lives of Captain Jack Vol. 1, is arrogant, lazy, amoral, and very different from Jack. I fucking love Javic.
> 
> Although the events of this chapter is set before Month 25 and follows its continuity, you don't have to have heard Month 25 to make sense of it, although having listened to Month 25 would definitely amplify the experience. 
> 
> Thanks to Jacklynn for making sure this made sense, and thank Kai for the last part. He told me I could make it sadder.
> 
> Without further adieu, enjoy!

**5094**

**Undisclosed location near the Time Agency**

**Ianto**

The city where the energy signature of Jack’s latest teleport leads Ianto to could have been copy-pasted from any number of cities he has visited in the last five hundred years. It’s meticulously-planned and terraformed with none of the chaotic, historic feel of cities like Cardiff, New York, or even Brileia. (And now, that was a _lifetime_ ago for Ianto.) 

Silver spirals stretch toward the sky with symmetrical lush green parks every few blocks. Humans, humanoids, and aliens of every imaginable kind mill around, striding quickly to their destinations or dawdling, enjoying the artificial chill in the night air. Ianto slips around them, following the signal on his vortex manipulator to a brightly-lit nightclub in a packed area of the city.

In his three thousand years of immortal life and counting, Ianto has found that bars or other kinds of drinking establishments are a staple of life no matter where he travels in the universe. Even cultures where drinking is a taboo still have some kind of gathering ritual where people chat, catch up, and play games. This nightclub is no exception.

He steps through the discreet double doors of the nightclub and into another world entirely. Dimly, over the thumping heavy beat of bass and the colorful flashing lights that assault Ianto’s senses, he wonders how much money the owners spent on their intense sound-proofing. Granted, the soundproofing technology has improved considerably since his club days in the early twenty-first century.

Twin stairs wind down on either side of the little balcony he stands on. One leads towards the gleaming bar where black-suited bartenders toss and mix drinks with grand flourish. The other arrives in a sprawling corner lined with sleek red and black leather booths and well-polished mahogany tables. Other clubbers in sequins, silk, or leather are divided amongst these booths, laughing, chatting, or sipping at drinks. And directly below them, visible once he leans over the elaborate silver railing, is a floor of writhing dancers who sway in rhythm to the breathless pop music blasting from invisible speakers. Ianto doesn’t know what language the music is in, but he hears it in English, gazing down at the dancers illuminated in spasming shades of rainbow lights. 

Ianto’s vortex manipulator gives him no further information and nor does a discreet scan with his sonic screwdriver, its soft buzzing drowned up by the club music. Jack is here, in this crowded nightclub, and it is up to Ianto himself to find him now. He leans at the balcony’s railing, straining his eyes to spot Jack amongst the dancers or perhaps at one of the booths, surrounded by a crowd of fawning admirers.

But Jack is nowhere to be seen.

The stream of people entering behind Ianto forces him down the stairs and to the ground floor. Huffing, he weaves his way through the throngs of people milling about the edges of the dance floor and heads to the bar. He slips into a stool before the counter and nods politely to the blowfish bartender - and _what a surprise_ it had been when Ianto had discovered that blowfish weren’t native to Earth. “One hypervodka please.”

“A man after my own heart,” a familiar voice jokes, simultaneously sending shivers and sparks down Ianto’s spine. To the bartender: “I’ll have what he’s having.”

Muscles tense, body coiling with anticipation, Ianto slowly, very _slowly_ , pivots around on his bar stool.

Captain Jack Harkness stands before him, dressed in not his greatcoat and braces but similar blue-toned clothing and a leather jacket, and - in classic Jack fashion - grinning cheekily. It takes Ianto a moment to realize that this is not _his_ Jack; this Jack is at least a decade younger than the man who became a fixed point in time and space. His facial features are less defined. There are fewer scars and wrinkles lining his flawless skin. The most noticeable difference is Jack’s eyes, still boldly blue but more carefree and missing several millennia worth of wisdom and pain.

“Good choice,” Ianto tells him.

Jack - although Ianto knows that he doesn’t currently doesn’t go by Jack - takes Ianto’s reply as permission to slide onto the bar stool beside him. “What brings you here, handsome?” he asks lecherously. He gives Ianto an appreciative glance, eyes lingering pointedly between Ianto’s legs where Ianto is already semi-erect in his trousers. 

Ianto raises an eyebrow as he peers back at Jack. “I came here looking for someone,” he replies, “but I think I might have found someone better.” 

“That’s one helluva a line,” Jack drawls, bracing his elbow on the bar and propping his head on his palm. His body is twisted slightly, legs sprawled out; he’s putting himself on display to Ianto, and judging by his wide smirk, he knows that it’s working. Sparks of lust fly down Ianto’s spine. “Does it always work?”

“Does yours?” Ianto counters, and Jack blinks his heavily-lidded eyes.

Licking his lips enticingly, Ianto’s eyes following the hypnotic movements of his pink tongue, Jack straightens in his seat. “No,” he admits, “but I like challenges.” His cocky grin indicates that he’s found Ianto to be one. 

The bartender sets their hypervodkas down, and immediately, Jack swipes up the martini glass and takes a strong sip of the pale-yellow liquor. “ _Oooh_...just enough vermouth.” To Ianto: “You’d be surprised how many bartenders get hypervodka wrong.” He winks at the blowfish bartender who nods gratefully in return. 

Ianto sips his own drink. He’s always found hypervodka to be a bit too much, but he’s been ordering one in honor of Jack since they crossed into this millennium. Little did he know, hypervodka would actually summon Jack to him. “What brings you here tonight?”

Jack taps fingers against the rim of his martini glass in a nonsensical rhythm. “Fun.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I come out here when I need to take the edge off from my job.”

_Ah_ , the infamous Time Agency, based in this very city. Ianto’s no idiot; he is very able to connect the dots to what period of his life Jack currently is in. He hasn’t met the Doctor yet, which is evident in the very lines of Jack’s firm body. He’s more relaxed, more carefree, doesn’t really have a sense of responsibility or any desire to worry for anyone beyond himself.

“And what is it you do?” asks Ianto. He brings his drink to his lips and sips, Jack’s eyes glued to the movement of his throat.

“Classified,” Jack says with a wink. He grins at Ianto again. “But rest assured, what I do helps you sleep soundly in bed at night.”

“Who says that’s what I do in bed at night?” Ianto counters, voice and demeanor dry enough to startle a chuckle out of Jack.

Leaning closer, Jack purposely brushes his shoulder up against Ianto’s arm, and the sudden physical contact and the warmth of Jack’s skin against his causes his toes to curl. “Javic Piotr Thane,” he says, taking Ianto’s hand in his and pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin of the palm, causing Ianto to shiver. “And you are?”

Javic Thane, Jack Harkness, he’s the same man to Ianto.

“Ianto Jones,” he replies, lips curling into an amused smile. A slight thrill runs through him at his discovery, gooseflesh rising on his skin. 

“ _Ianto Jones_ ,” Javic tries, the unfamiliar syllables stumbling and dancing over his tongue as he butchers the name. “Ianto Jones.” He offers Ianto a lustful smile. “I have a feeling we’re going to have a _very good_ time together.”

* * *

**5094**

**Javic Thane’s flat**

**Javic**

The lock beside the front door to the flat flashes green, and then the door is rapidly pushed inwards, slamming against the wall with a loud _thud_.

The men who stumble inside are unbothered by the noise, far more occupied with snogging the living daylights out of each other. Hands worm themselves into trousers, tongues entangle with each other, and a deep baritone moans before there is another soft _thud_ as something topples over. The same voice hisses in pain.

“Computer, lights on!” Javic calls, and both men duck their heads when the flat floods with sudden brightness. Once Javic’s eyes have adjusted to the light, he glances back towards Ianto who gazes back with wide, lust-blown eyes, only the slightest blue of his pupil still visible. His chest heaves as he pants, shirt half unbuttoned and pushed off his shoulders, dark hair in a total disarray, mouth pink and raw from their kissing.

_Fuck_! A sharp stab of desire goes straight to Javic’s cock as he feasts on the sight of Ianto unravelled. He’s only known the man for a few hours, but with the way they instantly clicked and the way that the air between them sizzled, it feels like he’s known him a lifetime. If anything, tonight’s gonna be fantastic, maybe even unforgettable. 

He licks his lips, a motion followed by Ianto’s rapt, hungry stare, and unconsciously goes to fondle his cock, but Ianto tears his eyes away quickly. Javic drops his hand back to his side.

The other man turns to examine Javic’s flat, reaching to place a small tchotchke back on its shelf and fiddling with it further until it’s aligned. Javic rolls his eyes at the other man’s peculiarities. “Nice place you have here,” he says softly in that odd Earth accent that Javic can’t place but does wonderful things to him.

“Thanks,” Javic replies, grinning. “It’s all from the catalogue.” He snorts. “As if I spend enough time here to actually care what it looks like. As long as there’s a bed, it’s fine with me.” At his words, Ianto’s blue eyes color with a bit of sadness, and Javic’s brow furrows. For reasons he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t want to see that expression on Ianto’s face. Bewildered, he turns, busying himself with the bar cart tucked between a wall and the sleek couch. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

When he turns back, Ianto is somehow right before him. “No, thank you,” he says before pinning Javic to the wall. Javic’s grin spread, but then Ianto’s lips descend back on his, and his entire world reduces to Ianto’s warm mouth moving against his.

Ianto is a skilled kisser, with a very talented mouth, and in the few thoughts that Javic can spare between moaning and tugging Ianto’s firm body against his, he wonders if Ianto is just as talented with his fingers and hands. He fists his own fingers in Ianto’s hair, luxuriating in the feel of the soft, silky curls against his skin. 

They snog passionately, heat licking up Javic’s spine, for a few minutes, and when he gently nips at Ianto’s lower lip, the other man hisses. Skillfully, Javic undoes Ianto’s trousers and shoves them past his pale hips, eyeing his thick, hard cock. He licks his lips.

“Gonna suck you off,” he tells Ianto whose eyes widen before he nods, wordless and eager. He drops to his knees, trying not to drool with Ianto’s cock right before him, and presses a gentle, obscene kiss to the head. Ianto hisses, and his cock twitches, but Javic’s just getting started. He leans forward slightly, spreading his knees just a bit and palming the bulge in his own trousers, sighing. Then he bends his neck and takes the entirety of Ianto’s considerable length in his mouth.

Ianto makes a strangled noise of surprise pleasure at the sudden change in sensation, and his hips buck forward until the tip of his cock bumps against the back of Javic’s throat, but Javic is a professional and has no gag reflex. He hums around Ianto’s cock, wrapping his lips around the base and hollowing his cheeks, bringing his head forward until his nose brushes against Ianto’s stomach, and isn’t surprised when Ianto’s fingers fist firmly in his hair, tugging hard enough to make Javic hiss. His eyes flicker shut. He brings up his own fingers to lightly toy with the skin of Ianto’s balls.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ianto groans, low and deep in his throat. “Your mouth is incredible.” His grip tightens in Javic’s hair. “I fucking love your mouth.” He punctuated his statement with a light, experimental thrust.

Slowly, Javic slips his mouth off of Ianto and leers up at the other man who gazes down at him hungrily. “Fuck my mouth.” There is a slight hoarse rasp to his voice, and as Ianto gapes at him, hands slack by his side, slick cock jutting out proudly, Javic wraps his lips around him again

It is a simple enough command but causes the tables to turn. Whereas previously it had been Javic teasing and provoking reactions out of Ianto, now, the other man takes control. He rubs his thumb once over Javic’s mouth, shiny with saliva, and watches how the bottom lip rolls obscenely under the pressure. Then he slots his cock between Javic’s lips and shoves forward swiftly and abruptly enough that the Time Agent’s eyes water, sending warmth flooding through his body. Sometimes, Javic just likes to be used, no matter how rough or dirtily. 

Ianto slides his cock in and out of Javic’s mouth in short, savage thrusts until the other man is drooling and can’t see straight. The hand in his hair is painful and rough but welcome. Javic tries to aid Ianto by keeping his mouth slack and swallowing around the head of Ianto’s cock, but he is mainly there for Ianto to take his pleasure. 

The other man is mostly silent, expression one of pleasurable concentration, like he’s turned on by just _seeing_ Javic, which is flattering and understandable even if it feels a bit too intimate. Their gazes remained locked, blue clashing with blue, until eventually, the grip in Javic’s hair tightens just a tad too much on the side of painful before slacking a bit. 

“ _Ja…_ ” Ianto moans before coming in Javic’s mouth. Javic swallows every last bit of the other man’s release, relishing the bitter taste.

Then he smirks up at Ianto, knowing that he must look quite a sight. The other man stares back, his hand falling from Javic’s hair, face slack and twitching from his orgasm, knees visibly wobbly. “Was that good for you?” Javic rasps, and Ianto shivers at the sound of his voice. _Fuck_ , but his voice is going to be completely gone tomorrow, just in time for his next meeting with Maglin Shank. 

Instead of replying, Ianto yanks Javic up by his collar and manhandles Javic, every bump and scrape sending sparks of desire through his body, until he’s pinned against the wall. Ianto recaptures his lips, and they kiss violently and passionately until there ceases to be breath in Javic’s lungs. When they part, he finds that at some point, he’d wrapped his legs around Ianto’s waist, unconsciously grinding his own cock against Ianto. 

“Where’s your bedroom?” Ianto growls, and Javic can feel the hands that he’s wrapped around his back searing into his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. Carefully, he raises a hand, and Ianto stumbles in the direction in which he points. With a soft _thud_ , Javic finds himself deposited on the silky blanket of his bed, Ianto looming over him, eyes wide as they feast upon him. “Gonna fuck you until you cry.”

“That’s a tall order,” Javic retorts, although he stills swallows nervously. A bottle of lubricant hits him on the side of the head, though it isn’t thrown with much force, and he chuckles.

Ianto leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Open yourself up,” he orders Javic, and it isn’t until he reaches up to scratch at his jaw that Javic notices the bracer on his right wrist that looks suspiciously like a vortex manipulator.

A twinge of suspicions runs through him, but Ianto is too much of a good lay for him to stop in the middle to interrogate him. Instead, Javic turns onto his hands and knees, getting his fingers slick enough with the lube, before reaching around to trail his wet fingers over his sensitive hole, shivering at the sensation. He watches Ianto’s expression darken, a muscle in his jaw twitch; he’s so responsive, and although Javic longs to put on a show for the other man, the urge to have Ianto inside him is too overpowering. He rubs between his cheeks and over his hole one last night before sliding two fingers straight inside him.

Javic scissors himself open, eyes widening as he relishes the burn and stretch of his muscles. He pushes his fingers in until his knuckles brush his arse, breath hitching. Then he crooks his fingers _just right_ , jabbing them right against his prostate, and colorful sparks explode behind his eyes. He whimpers, forcing his eyes open, and stares back towards Ianto who is now stroking his cock to hardness again with some of the lube. “I’m ready,” he says.

Ianto shakes his head. “One more finger.”

Too horny to do anything but comply, Javic slides a third finger inside himself, twisting and scissoring until he’s slightly looser, but by then, he’s enjoying himself too much to stop until he feels a steel grip around his wrist. His eyes flick upwards. “C’mon,” he whines to Ianto, but the other man isn’t swayed. Javic tries harder, arching his back to place his arse on display, exposing his hole. “ _Ianto_ , fuck me!”

“On your back.” And Ianto manhandles Javic until he’s laying on the bed on his back, legs spread wide. Ianto strokes himself a few times. “Protection?”

“Already taken care of.” (The Time Agency is vigorous in their birth control; they can’t have operatives having children across time and space, especially Javic.)

Ianto bends over to suck a purple bruise in the hollow of Javic’s throat before lifting Javic’s legs onto his shoulder. With one hand, he positions his cock at Javic’s entrance before slowly pushing inside until he’s buried deep inside Javic, balls brushing against the other man’s arse. 

The deep fullness causes Javic to moan softly, panting, and he clenches down onto Ianto’s thick, hard length until Ianto hisses. “ _Move_ ,” Javic demands, and after a few more moments of beautiful, agonising pleasure, Ianto pulls out completely. Javic keens.

Then Ianto _slams_ back inside him, forcing a louder moan from Javic when Ianto’s cock glances across his prostate. 

Ianto fucks Javic in long, quick strokes, shoving deep inside him before pulling back - but not completely. He keeps up a rough, steady rhythm, striking Javic’s prostate consistently enough and with such impeccable aim that the world becomes an endless blur of pleasure, Javic’s blood singing in his veins. He’s still lucid enough, however, to keep a firm grip on his cock, squeezing and twisting in time to Ianto’s thrusts.

Javic focuses on the undeniable pressure inside him, whimpering slightly, hearing Ianto moan and pant, his head tossed back, expression screwed up his pleasure. “Ianto, _fuck_ ... _fuck_ , right there.” He sighs and whimpers again. “ _Right there_.”

“You feel so good around me,” Ianto tells him, gasping. “ _So good_.” Another moan. “It feels like it’s been no time at all. I love…” 

It takes another jab to Javic’s prostate and a swipe of his thumb over the sensitive head of his cock for Javic to come, spurting his release all between him and Ianto. Fuzzy roaring in his ears drowns out the rest of Ianto’s words, and the world blurs around him as he throws his head back, calling Ianto’s name. When he becomes a bit more lucid, he finds that Ianto is still fucking him, rocking his cock against Javic’s sore prostate. 

Javic smirks up at the other man. “You feel so _good_ ,” he moans, clenching down around Ianto as hard as he can, trying to egg him on. “Your cock is...”

Now his words are drowned out as Ianto makes a loud, strangled gasp of pleasure, face going slack, eyes blown wide, words spilling uncontrollably from his lips. None of them make sense to Javic. “ _Fuck_!”

Ianto’s cock slips out of him, and Ianto slowly eases Javic’s legs down before gently stroking his forehead. Ianto pads to the bathroom, returning with a damp flannel which he uses to silently clean between Javic’s legs, along his crack, and then both of their stomachs. Before Javic can protest, he politely returns to the bathroom. Finally, he slips into the bed with Javic.

“Was it good for you?” Javic asks, eyes drooping. He’s suddenly, unexpectedly tired; Ianto really wore him out.

Wordlessly, Ianto nods, wrapping an arm around Javic to tug him closer. He presses a soft kiss to Javic’s mouth and then his forehead. “Sleep,” he says eventually.

For the first time in a long, _long_ time, sleep comes rather easily to Javic Thane, his nightmares of Boeshane and losing Gray kept at bay in the arms of a stranger named Ianto Jones.

* * *

**5094**

**Javic Thane’s flat**

**Ianto**

When Ianto wakes in the middle of the night, he knows enough to tell that something is different, that something is wrong. There is a heavy, almost painful pressure on his chest and stomach. Despite the darkness in the room, enough moonlight seeps in through the large windows in the bedroom to allow Ianto to make out Javic straddling him, a sonic blaster pointed at Ianto’s head.

“Who sent you?” Javic growls.

“What?” Ianto replies almost nonsensically, mind still groggy from sleep. The thought of death via sonic blaster is gruesome enough to clear his mind just a bit, though he dare not move under Javic’s suspicious glare. “Why do you have the blaster pointed at me?”

“Who sent you, Ianto Jones?” Javic repeats, smiling viciously. It’s an ugly expression, one Ianto has seen ever so rarely on Jack’s face, and it might be made worse by Javic’s youthfulness. He gulps, remembering John Hart’s tales of Jack’s darkness, of Jack’s ruthlessness, and he’s instantly grateful that Javic can’t kill him permanently.

“No one sent me.” Ianto’s voice is quiet.

Javic rolls his eyes, disbelieving. “I’m pretty,” - he leers, still flirty despite the weapon he wields, still Jack - “but I’m not stupid. I saw the vortex manipulator. Stop _lying_ to me.” The last few words are snarled, and he shoves the sonic blaster closer to Ianto’s forehead. “So who sent you? Was it the Time Agency? Are they finally tired of me?”

“Why would the Time Agency send me to kill you, Javic?” Ianto asks, sighing, trying to rationalize with him.

“Because,” Javic bites back. “Because I’m Javic Thane. Because I’m lazy, amoral, apathetic. Because I annoy Maglin to hell and back. Because it’s the Time Agency.” He shrugs. “Do they really need any reason to do _anything_?”

“Who’s Maglin?” asks Ianto in utter bewilderment, eyes flicking upwards towards the sonic blaster. “And no, the Time Agency didn’t send me.”

Javic stiffens. “ _Who’s Maglin_?” he repeats, voice tinged with just a bit of hysteria. “Only the leader of the fucking Time Agency!” He studies Ianto again, gaze slightly alarmed. “They really didn’t send you, did they?”

Silently, Ianto shakes his head.

“Who did send you?” Javic asks again, tone urgent and a bit desperate. His finger twitches over the trigger of his blaster. “And why do you have that vortex manipulator?”

“I’m a visitor,” Ianto tells him, “a traveller.” He taps his vortex manipulator, careful of his movements. “Like I said, I’m looking for someone; this allows me to track them.” An idea sparks in his mind, and he takes a gamble. “You don’t have to be a Time Agent to have a vortex manipulator. You know River Song, right?”

“Oh, River,” the other man says with a bit of a lustful, dreamy sigh. Ianto would roll his eyes or laugh, but he gets it; he _really_ gets it. But Javic’s gaze retains its hint of paranoia. “Is that it? You’re with River?”

“No, you idiot,” Ianto groans. “I’m not with River. I’m not even here for you. You’re gorgeous; I saw you and wanted to fuck you.” Which is partially true. 

“ _Oh_ ,” says Javic. “ _Oh_.” And he clambers off of Ianto, dropping the sonic blaster on his bedside table. “Well..” He laughs awkwardly. 

“For fuck’s sake.” This time, Ianto climbs on top of him. “This will make it less awkward.” He wriggles a hand under the blanket and grasps Javic’s cock.

“What are you doing…?” Javic’s question turns into a long moan, and eventually, when Ianto’s mouth wraps around him, he understands.

* * *

**5094**

**Javic Thane’s flat**

**Javic**

Morning light breaks through the windows of the bedroom, casting everything in a soft golden glow, but the two men moving on the bed have been awake for hours.

As Javic slowly lowers himself back onto Ianto’s cock, bearing down and squeezing around the hard length until Ianto, lounging with his back against the headboard, throws his head and sighs, he can feel that something has changed with the daylight. Well, physically, since he now has a cock up his arse, and he once again clenches pointedly, but also emotionally. They remain mostly silent; there is none of the dirty talk from last night aside from the occasional whimper or moan. 

Javic pants quietly, lifting himself back up until only the tip of Ianto’s cock remains wedged inside him. They’ve been at this for a while, his thighs and knees aching despite the softness of the bed, but it’s worth it. When he drops back and takes Ianto back inside him, deliberately arching his back and angling his body so that Ianto presses against his prostate, the explosion of pleasure behind his eyes and the sparks that lick up his spine are _indescribable_.

“Getting close,” Ianto says quietly, his tongue dipping out slightly to lap at his bottom lip. His hands are pinned to his side, as instructed by Javic, but Javic longs to feel Ianto’s fingers across his skin, all over his body. It’s a strange urge that goes beyond simply lust and that Javic has never felt for any of his one-night stand partners before. This feels remarkably similar to two lovers sharing an intimate early morning moment rather than two strangers, which bewilders Javic.

Also nearing the precipice of his orgasm, Javic somehow finds it within himself - pun _intended_ \- to not selfishly speed up and seek his own pleasure. He continues at the agonizingly slow pace and hums when Ianto’s cock just _glances_ off his prostate. He shifts slightly on his knees.

It starts to become a bit _too much_ , and by the time Javic drops back down, he’s shaking slightly. “Touch me,” he tells Ianto, voice unrecognizable with pleasure and _something else_.

As if a dam has broken, Ianto lunges forward, thrusting his hips up experimentally, only adding to the sensation in Javic’s body, but then his hips still. Instead of touching Javic’s cock, he brings his hands up to cup Javic’s face between his palms. His lips brush gently once against Javic’s before Ianto kisses him deeply and slowly.

Javic gasps softly into Ianto’s mouth, taken aback. He doesn’t think he’s ever been touched, or held, like this before during sex. It feels intimate, loving, more than a standard fucking. There is no tongue and no teeth; this kiss is chaste, almost reverential. 

He opens his eyes but finds that Ianto’s are shut. Blushing fiercely, he shuts his own, embracing the darkness, the soft tenderness of Ianto’s lips against his own, the warmth of his palms on Javic’s cheeks, the sensation of being full and then being _not_ as he moves.

_Who are you thinking of_ ? muses Javic when Ianto breaks off the kiss and leans their foreheads together. He can feel Ianto’s breath wafting across his skin with each gasp and moan the other man makes. _Who are you remembering_ ? He gently bears down on the cock inside him. _Who are you loving_?

Javic doesn’t understand why, but for a brief moment, he longs to be the one in Ianto’s mind before reason floods back to his mind.

“Close,” he gasps, feeling every bit of his pleasure as it builds to a crescendo, and Ianto nods. He wraps an arm around Javic, pulling him close, as the other goes to grasp Javic’s hard, weeping cock. Javic inhales sharply at the sudden sensation.

It takes not more than a few tugs on his cock, a few more lifts and drops of Javic’s hips, before the world blurs around him. His eyes have unconsciously fluttered open, and he focuses on Ianto’s stare, their eyes locked together. Briefly, no one else exists in the universe except for Javic and Ianto, the other man’s eyes full of something seemingly like _love_ , before everything comes flooding back.

Panting, Javic collapses backwards. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says inbetween wheezy pants. “ _Fuck_. That was intense.”

“It was,” agrees Ianto. Just like he did last time, he cleans them both up again, leaving the second flannel where he did the first in the bathroom. 

Javic, tired out from all their activities the night before, during the night, and right now, is barely clinging onto consciousness. “Normally, I’d kick you out,” he admits, “but we had quite the night, and that would be incredibly rude.” He can’t believe he _actually cares_ about manners. “You can stay.”

He drifts off to sleep with Ianto’s arms around him again.

Almost an hour later, when Javic’s breathing has slowed, Ianto carefully slips from the bed, stiffening every time Javic twitches or snores slightly. It takes an agonizingly long time, but Ianto manages to redress in his trousers, shirt, and coat, smoothing out any wrinkles. He has the psychic paper, TARDIS key, sonic screwdriver, and - of course, the vortex manipulator on his wrist. The rucksack at his feet contains everything else, including his sonic blasters, which he’s grateful Javic never decided to rifle through.

Ianto glances back towards the dozing man on the bed. 

Javic Piotr Thane is both everything he expected and everything he _didn’t_ . Ianto can see the early makings of the man Jack Harkness will become inside him, but Javic still has none of the kindness, care, or sense of responsibility Jack does. Granted, it’s there in Javic, only buried _deep down_ , and it will take a Doctor to uncover all of it. 

Ianto strokes a damp lock of hair from Javic’s eyes before bending down to press a sweet kiss to his forehead. “I’m leaving now, Jack,” he says to Javic. “I’m leaving now, but I will be back. I _will_ find you.” Gently, he runs his thumb across Javic’s cheekbone, heart aching as he tries to memorize every detail of Javic’s face, including the ones that time had erased from Ianto’s incredible memory. “I promise.”

* * *

**2006**

**Cardiff**

**Jack**

Many months later after Ianto Jones’s night with Javic Thane, Javic comes to the realization that he’s missing a rather great chunk of money...and memories. He’s jaded and angry enough to leave the Time Agency, but none of it explains the _emptiness_ he feels, like there’s a hole in his heart engraved with the name of someone he’s forgotten. 

Javic spends several years as a con man, living in luxury and flirting with gorgeous people across the galaxy, but every night, he dreams of blue eyes and a lilting accent.

_I’m leaving now_ , _Jack_ , this mystery man says in his dreams. _I’m leaving now_ , _but I will be back_ . _I_ will _find you_ . _I promise_.

There’s someone looking for him. Javic doesn’t know who or why, but there’s a man somewhere out there in the galaxy who loves him and is looking for him. And Javic wants to find him. He wants to be a man worthy of his mysterious pursuer. 

When Javic lands in London and steals the name of a dead man, he wonders why he responds so naturally when addressed as Jack. He thought it would be like slipping into another man’s clothes, but instead, it feels as comfortable as his own skin.

When Jack stands on Satellite Five, steely-gazed, wielding a gun against several Daleks, he thinks about fingers ghosting against his skin, his body an instrument in a stranger’s hands, played so deftly that it felt like the man had known him forever. Rose and the Doctor love him - and he loves them back - but not in the way he thinks that stranger does. Jack holds onto that feeling of being loved as he runs out of bullets and the Dalek advances on him.

A hundred-and-something years in Cardiff fly by in the blink of an eye. (Well, they don’t, but they’re filled with waiting. Waiting for the Doctor or waiting for the mystery man? Jack can no longer tell, but the surge of longing he’d felt when he’d first landed in Cardiff with the Doctor and Rose, the surge of longing he feels every time he hears a Welsh accent, is almost enough to tide him over.)

Canary Wharf comes crashing down, and Jack grieves for Rose, but things are changing now, and he doesn’t realize it. The events orchestrated thousands of years in the future - but also _here and now_ \- are snapping into order.

One night, Jack goes out on a solo mission; there’s been a Weevil spotted in the woods, and he figures he can take care of it single-handedly, but the Weevil almost tears his throat out. Almost. He’s saved by a mystery man with a large stick. This stranger is young and pretty, crystal blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, pink lips curled into an inquisitive smile.

“Thanks,” he tells Jack, and his voice is quiet, deep, Welsh, and _oh-so-familiar_ . He sounds like something out of a dream, out of Jack’s dreams. At the sound of his voice, Jack shivers; all of a sudden, something that he hasn’t noticed that has been akilter in his life for a long, long while clicks back into place. Suddenly, everything feels _right_.

Jack frowns at this pretty, _pretty_ boy who’s popped up out of nowhere in these woods. “No, thank you. And you are?”

“Jones,” the stranger quips. “Ianto Jones.”

“Nice to meet you, Jones, Ianto Jones,” Jack replies, and well, everyone knows the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo! Now we're in the last stretch. Two chapters left. Two more weeks. Will Jack find Ianto? How? Where? Or will Ianto find him? Or will there be no happily ever after? (JK, I'm not evil; of course, there will be one.)
> 
> Also, fool me once, fool me twice is now a series. I posted a short drabble earlier in the week where Ianto meets the Tenth Doctor. I have plans for a few spin-offs, but they won't be written for a few weeks until I vanquish the demon known as discrete mathematics. 
> 
> Hmmm, what can I tell you about the next chapter? We have some familiar faces...(any guesses?) and some familiar places (also any guesses?) No, really. Try guessing in the comments, and I might provide a snippet from the next chapter as a prize if you get one right!
> 
> I love hearing from you guys and chatting with you in the comments! Oooooh. Let me know if there's any spin-off ideas you have for this series and what Jack and Ianto could potentially get up to. And if you ever wanna discuss any scenes in particular, please. I love talking about this fic. 
> 
> See you next week!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack searches the universe for Ianto Jones. Ianto encounters some familiar faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, one chapter left. God, as excited as I am to be here, I'm also so, so sad that the journey we've had for the last eight weeks is almost over. It's been fun, guys.
> 
> Chapter Nine! Things are wrapping up. Expect some familiar faces and places and a whole range of emotion. Enjoy! Come scream at me in the comments when you're done!

**5094**

**Cardiff**

**Jack**

Somehow, in his bewilderment and grief, Jack realizes that Ianto stepped off the invisible lift, and so he steps onto it himself, a memory flickering back into his mind.

_ Why don’t we have a secret code for the invisible lift _ ? he’d demanded of Ianto over breakfast in the Hub.  _ It makes us seem more mysterious and shadowy _ .

Ianto had raised an eyebrow, attention focused on his steaming cup of coffee.  _ And what kind of secret code would we have _ ? His tone had been sarcastic:  _ Whisper Torchwood? Tap “Shave and a Haircut” onto the paving stone _ ? When he’d glanced up and seen Jack’s gleeful expression, he’d groaned.

Now, flush with the knowledge that Ianto’s alive, Jack lifts his foot and taps out the familiar rhythm of “Shave and a Haircut” onto the paving stone. He waits briefly, heart caught in his throat, before there is the familiar scraping sound as the stone moves and the lift begins to descend.

Gone is the familiar Hub, the one Gwen had rebuilt. What remains is a singular room with faint lights illuminating brick walls and cement floors. When Jack steps off the lift, he finds a long slab that juts out from one wall with the imprint of a keyboard, and when Jack types in his Torchwood personnel code, he’s scanned by soft blue lights.

“ _ Identity confirmed _ ,” an automated voice says. “ _ Torchwood Institute director Captain Jack Harkness _ .”

Despite everything, Jack manages a smirk. It’s good to have his superiority acknowledged. He’s been back-and-forthing with Torchwood for two millennia, but he’s still in charge.

A white screen stretches across the wall, above the slab, but before Jack can glance up, he’s attacked from behind. There’s no need for his hand to drift to his weapon however; he knows those arms wrapped around him, has felt that familiar embrace many times in different stages of  _ both  _ their lives. He turns around to peer into a face he last saw wrinkled and on her deathbed.

“Gwen Cooper,” he says, smiling softly, eyes crinkling with as much happiness as he can currently manage. “What have you done with yourself?”

There’s a smile wider than his own on Gwen’s face. She looks just as she did when she’d first joined his original team, perhaps only a wrinkle or gray hair more. “Computer interface,” she explains. “Holo-light projectors. The last Torchwood Three director thought that I would be the most welcoming face for you.”

“They were right.” A moment later: “And where are we?”

“The Torchwood Three Archive,” Gwen replies, arms still wound around Jack. With their proximity, she’s forced to tilt her head up to see his face. “We built this knowing that one day, you would be back. Anything, and everything, that you should ever need from Torchwood, Jack, is here.”

Jack nods, taking this in stride. He thinks he’s doing pretty well for having seen one of the great loves of his life whom he thought dead alive on the Plass ten minutes ago and then meeting one of his best friends, also thought dead, in the remains of their super-secret underground base. “And Ianto?” he asks. “I saw him.” He points towards the ceiling. “On the Plass. He was just leaving the Archive. He had a vortex manipulator.” He swallows the raw lump in his throat, his next words incredibly quiet: “ _ Did Torchwood bring him back too _ ?”

Gwen shakes her head, smile becoming sad. “No, Jack. That wasn’t Torchwood. That was the Rift.”

“The Rift?” echoes Jack numbly.

A nod this time. “It spit him out in 3009 on a planet called Brileia. I gave him a vortex manipulator that could track your own whenever you jumped or teleported.” Gwen hesitates, apology flickering in her expression; she clearly doesn’t like that she’s hurting Jack by telling him this. “The Rift made him like you. He can’t die. He can’t die, and he’s been looking for you for two thousand years.”

_ Two thousand years _ ? Jack staggers backwards.  _ Two thousand fucking years _ . His mind is awhirl, the world fading out around him, sound muting. He’s overwhelmed with  _ so many different  _ emotions, too many for even an immortal former Time Agent, and he can process none of them, instead clinging to the dregs of rationality and calm that has gotten him through so much. 

Finally, he gasps out, “I need to find him.” With every limb quivering, he manages to straighten his body and slowly stumbles forward onto the invisible lift. “I’m sorry, Gwen, but I need to find Ianto.” It feels like someone’s wrapped an incredibly tight elastic around his heart that is squeezing it harder and harder. “ His vision has become blurry with tears, and he shivers. “ _ Two thousand years _ Ianto spent looking for me.  _ Two thousand years  _ we spent apart. I’ll be damned if we spend another decade like that.”

As the lift begins to ascend, Jack tries to keep his eyes from flickering to Gwen, standing frozen and weepy-eyed in the Torchwood Three Archive, but he fails. Still, the proud smile she also wears sends a bit of warmth through his bones.

_ Watch where you’re going! You nearly hit my son!  _

Jack inhales sharply, knees wobbly. That means...it  _ had been _ Ianto he’d heard in Leev in 3070. All those years wasted…

“I will find you, Ianto Jones,” Jack promises fiercely. “I will find you, and I won’t be letting you go any time soon.”

* * *

**5094**

**Vegas Galaxies**

**Ianto**

When Ianto hears rumors of a former Time Agent gambling his way through the Vegas Galaxies, he doesn’t pay them much heed. Based on remarks he remembers from his first meeting with John Hart, the Time Agency will be shut down in a few short years, and thus, the Time Agent could be anyone jumping ship early. 

But as he  _ keeps  _ hearing those rumors, Ianto thinks that there might actually be something there, so he makes his way to the Vegas Galaxies.

But the Time Agent he finds double-fisting hypervodkas in the middle of a casino isn’t Jack Harkness like he was hoping. 

It’s John Hart.

Hart continues gaping at him, failing to have noticed that his drinks have long since slipped to the floor and spilled. Boredly, Ianto notes that someone should clean that mess up  _ immediately  _ or that carpet will stain. Even in the fifty-first century, no one has invented decent cleaning products.

“You’re dead,” Hart says finally.

Ianto rolls his eyes. “Clearly not.”

Hart’s blue - very blue - eyes narrow. “Is this something Jack did? Did he put you up to this?” His stance shifts defensively. “Cause last I heard, you died three thousand years ago.” Then he fixes Ianto with an appreciative stare, grinning lecherously. “Although you look good for a walking corpse.”

“It was the Rift,” Ianto tells him, sighing. He nods over to a nearby attendant, pointing to the spilled hypervodka. He’ll come by to tip them as much as he can. “Come. Let’s take you to the bar. You’re going to need another drink.” He tilts his head consideringly. “Maybe two.”

Actually, it takes John Hart  _ three drinks  _ and several interruptions before he can fully absorb Ianto’s condensed story of the past two thousand years. 

“So you’re looking for Harkness,” Hart surmises, shaking his head. “That’s a pity.” A pause. “I spent about five linear years of my life with that man.” He shakes his head again, saying no more.

Clearly, it’s been some time for Hart too, almost a decade Ianto would guess, which explains the wrinkles and grey hair, although he’s still quite fit.

“The con on Eldarii,” Ianto says in realization. “That was the two of you.” He snorts. “Of course it was.” He peers up at Hart. “How did Jack talk you into that? Saving a planet from its dictator?”

“It took several skilled blowjobs.” Hart waggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Wonderful.” Ianto’s tone is dryer than the San Helios desert. He takes a sip of his own hypervodka, wrinkling his nose slightly at the taste. “Any idea where I could find Jack nowadays?”

“Good luck with that,” Hart says, draining his hypervodka. He signals to the bartender for another drink. “I haven’t seen him since I left him behind in 4497.”

Ianto decides to not mention that he met Javic Thane recently. He can’t imagine how that will go over with John Hart, and he doesn’t want to find out.

“Well,” he says then. “Anything you can tell me that would actually  _ help  _ me?”

Hart shrugs. “Look, if I know anything about Jack, it’s that every once in a while, he goes back to visit that little backwater colony of his that he’s from.”

“Boeshane?” Ianto’s eyebrows lift. “I’ve been; it’s definitely not a backwater.”

“Compared to where I’m from, Eye Candy,” Hart replies, Ianto scowling at the return of the hated nickname, “it is.” He reaches for his drink again. “So if you’d wanna find Jack Harkness again at some point, you might wanna take an extended holiday at the Boeshane Peninsula.”

* * *

**5095**

**Leev**

**Jack**

Two thousand years later and Leev has changed completely. 

It’s no longer the small human colony planet of forests and villages that Jack briefly visited in 3070. The forests had been cleared almost entirely, the rivers terraformed into large bodies of water, and tall gleaming towers stretch up to the sky. The village center now resembles more of a city center, and when Jack kneels at the center and peers at the cobblestones, he finds a metal plaque, still pristine thanks to thirty-first century engineering, that reads  _ Rhia Jones-Collins _ .

_ Of course Ianto would ensure that the Jones last name lives on for millennia _ , Jack thinks fondly.  _ Only Ianto Jones.  _ Briefly, he remembers another brilliant Jones he’d adored.

The plaque leads Jack to the archival building on the edge of the city. “Can I help you?” the elderly woman at the front desk asks Jack as he enters.

Jack flashes her his most charming smile. “I’m looking for some records from the thirty-first century, ma’am. Could you help me?”

The woman returns Jack’s smile. “Of course, dearie. Follow me.”

She seats him in a corner near a large window that looks upon a patch of forest and leaves him with a thin tab that projects a hologram. He begins by swiping through some basic history of Leev. Then he searches for one Ianto Jones, and his shoulders drop.

Reportedly, Ianto had arrived in Leev in 3060. In 3061, he had sent up a tailoring business -  _ only Ianto _ , Jack thinks again, chuckling. In 3062, he’d married a woman named Ariadne...a local flower seller.

Jack’s heart wrenches in his chest as he realizes...that flower seller that Jack had met in the marketplace who had referenced her husband, the tailor. That flower seller had been Ianto’s wife, the tailor Ianto.  _ Fuck _ , Jack had been several feet away from him.  _ He’d walked past Ianto _ ,  _ bumped into him _ ,  _ and hadn’t turned back _ . He’d only briefly hesitated, and Jack hates himself. He wishes he’d hesitated longer, turned back, not given a fuck about his transport.

There’s pictures here of Ianto, Ariadne, and the young son they’d had. Huw, his name was. Jack briefly remembers catching sight of him in the marketplace. Fair-haired, chubby-cheeked, and jade-eyed. There’s more pictures of the family through the times. Huw certainly grew into his looks, with Ianto’s cheekbones and his mother’s hair. Jack notes that later pictures feature only Huw and Ariadne, lacking Ianto, which sends him on another spiralling search.

He finds that a fire burnt down Ianto’s shop and “killed” him in 3080. Yet Ianto had remained on Leev, according to the records that Jack finds on Ifan John, John Cooper, and even a Ioan James. He’d stayed for at least another hundred years, because the last record for Ioan James disappears in 3199.

Ianto had stayed on Leev until his last-living descendant died, Jack realizes with a stab of sorrow.

His head dips down as tears begin to leak silently from his eyes, travelling swiftly down his cheeks. He inhales sharply. 

He would never wish his immortality on  _ anyone _ , especially not  _ Ianto Jones _ , one of the great loves of Jack Harkness’s life, and knowing that not only has Ianto spent the last two thousand years dying and coming back to life like Jack did but also seeing his loved ones dying before his eyes breaks Jack’s heart. The same curse that had always kept Jack a degree away from everyone he ever loved has now brought him and Ianto together.

_ I can die again and again, but you - I get one chance with you. Just one. And I want it to be special, because once it’s over...I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. _

Jack snorts bitterly, wiping away his tears with his sleeve. He’d told Ianto that once, while under the influence of the Good Thinking virus. He’d been chasing Ianto through the Hub, trying to kill the one he loved the most, but he had meant every single world he’d told Ianto Jones.

Now, he knows that it’d all been a lie. The universe had turned his words into a lie. He hadn’t had one chance with Ianto; he’d had many, and he’d been forced to figure out how to live without Ianto Jones when he could have had Ianto by his side all along.

Jack doesn’t know if he can ever forgive the universe for robbing him of two thousand years with Ianto Jones.

* * *

**5096**

**Monet**

**Ianto**

“Didn’t think I’d find you here,” comes a very familiar voice from behind Ianto.

Ianto, sitting on the lush green grass, knee-deep in the lavender clear water of the planet named after an art-loving human explorer, doesn’t turn around. He knows who his visitor is. “What brings you here...River Song?”

River takes a seat besides him, rolling up her trousers to slide her feet into the water. She sighs contentedly; Ianto knows the feeling. The waters of Monet are tranquil and at the perfect temperature to be pleasurable to the human body. “I was in the area,” she replies, shrugging. “Caught wind of you.” She pauses. “Well, it was either you or Jack Harkness.”

Despite the gorgeous meadow Ianto’s sitting in and the soothing water lapping at his calves, Ianto scoffs bitterly. “It’s never  _ bloody Jack Harkness  _ is it.”

“What happened?” River asks gently. “Last I heard, you were heading to Boeshane Peninsula. And that was about two hundred years ago.”

“I waited,” Ianto tells her. “I waited until 5078. I met Jack’s mother and saw him as a child. Then I met his past self-”

River scrutinizes his expression and inhales sharply, something that looks like humor dancing in her green eyes, but she doesn’t voice it. “ _ Oh _ , you’ve met Javic!”

Ianto snaps to his friend in surprise. “You know Javic Thane?” A moment later: “You’ve met young Jack?”

“Oh, ho, ho.” River laughs, low and husky. “Yes, yes, I have, and he is  _ a pest _ .” At Ianto’s stunned expression: “I did tell you that I’ve been up and down Jack Harkness’s timeline.” She looks contemplative for a moment. “Granted, the most significant of it hasn’t happened for him yet.” She prods Ianto gently, smirking. “Did you have fun with him at the very least?”

“Yes,” admits Ianto, perking up only slightly, “but that’s besides the point.” His shoulders droop again. “I’m looking for a linear,  _ current _ Jack, and he’s near impossible to find.” He kicks his foot forward in childish frustration, water splashing further up his leg, soaking where his trousers are rolled up. “John  _ fucking  _ Hart told me to go back to Boeshane, so I went back to Boeshane. I was there for two years. Did Jack Harkness  _ turn up _ ?  _ No! _ But I couldn’t stop hearing enough of the Face of fucking Boe, poster boy for the Boeshane Peninsula.” He reaches up to rub the tight furrow between his eyebrows. “So I left.”

“Oh, sweetie.” River reaches over to run a hand along his tense back. “Sweetie, believe me; I can sympathize. Now more than ever.” Ianto leans into her touch. “You’ll find Jack. You will. You just need to wait.”

“How much longer, River?” Ianto allows his frustration and indignation to bleed into his tone. “It’s like the universe doesn’t want me to be with Jack Harkness.” He near-growls. “Who am I to argue with the fucking universe?”

River’s eyebrows knit together, and she presses her lips together tightly. “Now, look at me, Ianto Jones,” she tells him fiercely. “ _ Look at me _ .”

So Ianto does, for the first time since she sat down beside him. He  _ actually  _ looks at her and notices what he hadn’t before. 

River, who had always looked timeless, has legitimately aged. She is at least a decade or two older than the River Ianto knows most, the one who graduated from Luna University. Her blond curls are no less riotous but are slightly greying. Her flawless skin has a few more wrinkles, and there are a few more laugh lines around her eyes. But her eyes, her eyes are definitely older, wiser, more haunted. In between all the indirectness of Ianto meeting River Song, she’s lived a life.

So many more of her previous comments fall into place now.

“How old are you, River?”

In an abrupt departure from the tone of her previous demand, she chuckles. “Would you believe me if I said over two hundred years old?”

“And you’re not immortal like me or Jack?”

“Nope, just human with a little bit of Time Lord.”

“Ah,  _ Time Lord _ .” Ianto chuckles wryly himself now. “Long story?”

“Long story,” she agrees. “But my point is, fuck the universe. Fuck what time tells you are destined to do or be.” She inhales sharply. “I was born as the woman meant to kill the Doctor.” 

At Ianto’s shock, she explains a little of her backstory that she’s dropped hints about in all the time Ianto’s known her - her parents as the Doctor’s companions, her birth, being kidnapped, being trained to kill the Doctor but falling for him instead.

Slowly, Ianto turns to face River, so many questions whirling through his mind. “Did you?”

“No.” River grins brightly, cheekily. “I married him instead.”

Ianto remembers equating the Doctor to Jack when River told him goodbye in 4649. He wonders if that analogy still holds up. “You married the Doctor?” he repeats. “Despite being molded into the perfect assassin against him?”

River rolls her eyes. “No one said that love was easy. It’s messy and passionate and certainly confusing but definitely not easy.” She stretches further back into the grass. “I married the Doctor, because I love him.” She sighs. “Of course, I married others and loved others, but the Doctor is…”

“Special,” presumes Ianto, dropping his head back, shoulders bumping against River. “Yeah, Jack is the same way for me.”

“Go back to Boeshane, Ianto,” River tells him. “Just a year or two longer. I have a feeling this time might be it.”

Ianto wants to believe her; he really does. River’s instincts have never been wrong, not really. He trusts her on this. After several long moments: “I will, River. I will.” He moves his legs in the water, watching nearby lilies drift in the pond. “River, you didn’t stumble upon me, did you? You came looking for me, because you knew I’d be here.” He pauses. “Why?”

“This time, Ianto Jones,” River says, and she turns to him, places her palms on his cheeks, and kisses him deeply, intimately. It feels a little bit like a goodbye. “I have a feeling that this time actually is the last time.” Ianto stares back at her with widened eyes. “My diary is running out of pages. I’m running out of time.” She smiles softly. “I’m here making my last rounds, saying my goodbyes to everyone I cared about. Which includes you, Ianto.”

“Stay with me,” Ianto replies, tangling their fingers together. “Let’s stay here a while.”

So they do.

* * *

**5096**

**Boeshane Peninsula**

**Jack**

Javic Piotr Thane returns to the Boeshane Peninsula a little more than five thousand years after he left it. Well, rather, it was Javic Thane who left. It’s Jack Harkness who returns. 

He arrives on the colony world via a transmat in the main center of town, and the moment he steps outside, he basks in everything from his childhood, everything he missed. It’s a Saturday, in the middle of the day, and the market is in full bloom around Jack. He hears his native language everywhere, other citizens of Boeshane calling out to each other in the first language he ever learned. He didn’t learn to speak English - or at least the fifty-first-century variant of it - until he became a soldier, and later, the Time Agency provided him with a vortex manipulator with a built-in translator that made every language sound like his native language. Stranded on Earth, he finally learned the original English tongue. Now, he can actually hear his native language again without the feedback echo of the translator. 

A few people recognize him as the Face of Boe, albeit a little older-looking than Javic Thane should currently be, and greet him. Jack nods in return, smiling and waving.

As Jack strolls through the city in a light jacket, his greatcoat, Webley, and other possessions stored in the rucksack on his back, his gaze traces over the orphanage where he grew up. They rebuilt it after the raids, after River saved his life as a young boy. He can never thank her enough for it, even if she was just returning the favor.

For a moment, Jack is so overwhelmed, so flooded with nostalgia from his childhood, that he cannot genuinely remember why he hasn’t returned to his former home until now. Then as he nears the coastline where he grew up, the coastline where the attack took place, the coastline where his family home was, he remembers.

The horrible memories come ebbing back; the phantoms of his past quelled by time return in full strength. Briefly, Javic Thane, not Jack Harkness, stands there reliving the past. 

(Young Javic screaming, feet tearing strips up and down the sand as he searches for his brother:  _ Gray? Gray? Gray! Gray, where are you? Gray! _

And his mother, crumpling down to the ground, the light fading from her eyes and never to return:  _ No, not my little boy. Not my little boy. _

His mother again, numb in the chair, glancing uncaringly at her surviving son as he’s taken away by concerned neighbors. She’d died not much later.

Gray shovelling dirt on Jack’s body, sorrow and apology in John’s eyes as he and the sky eventually disappeared from Jack’s view. Two thousand years of choking on dirt, of dying over and  _ over  _ again.)

Like the native birds that circle the skies above him, Jack shakes off the memories. He’s come here to find his peace with his past; he cannot let it weigh him down anymore. It’s time to let the dead lie.

He continues down the beach. There’s a man standing further away, silhouetted against the sun, the blinding light obscuring his features. Jack prepares to raise his hand in greeting, but as he proceeds forward, the light shifts, allowing him to see. His breath catches in his throat; his heart quickens.

The man on the beach is Ianto Jones. Ianto Jones in a lightweight cotton shirt and trousers, dressed exactly as a native of Boeshane. He’s lightly tanned with slight scruff on his jawline, and he’s never looked so beautiful to Jack. He’s facing away, gazing at the dazzling ocean; he hasn’t seen Jack yet.

Jack’s boots fall silently against the sand; as a child playing on this very beach, he’d mastered the skill of sneaking around amongst the scrubs and sand dunes, and so he uses that very skill to his advantage now. Ianto doesn’t hear Jack approaching, and soon, he is inches away.

“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” inquires Jack, coming to a stop behind Ianto, close enough to each out and touch him.

At the sound of his voice, Ianto stiffens, shoulders tensing. It may have been three thousand years, but Jack still knows how to read Ianto Jones and see the moment that the tension flows out of him, his shoulders drooping, his back arching slightly, his head listing to the side. 

“It is,” Ianto replies quietly, and the sound of his voice might still be one of the most wonderful things Jack has ever heard, deep, baritone, and - most importantly - still Welsh. “Someone once told me that a sunset on this beach was the most beautiful sight they’d ever seen.”

“Were they right?” Jack’s voice drops to a murmur as he slinks in beside Ianto. He doesn’t attempt to touch Ianto; the moment is too painfully beautiful. It is like capturing lightning in a bottle, mesmerizing but also liable to slip away in the blink of an eye. That’s what their relationship had been like, over before Jack knew it. Or so he thought. 

Ianto turns to Jack, the expression in his blue eyes indecipherable, even for Ianto. “You tell me, Jack.”

Jack hums, glancing between Ianto and the water. “Well, it’s the middle of the day, so it might be too early to tell.” He hesitates, which is quite unlike Captain Jack Harkness. “But I will say that I’m probably wrong. This is the second-most beautiful sight.”

“And the first?” 

For a moment, Jack thinks,  _ Does it really need saying _ ? Then he realizes that it does, because between the two of them, Jack Harkness and Ianto Jones, they might have the worst timing in the universe, which says a lot, because Jack has met the Doctor. “The most beautiful, to me, is you, Ianto. At any time and at any place in the universe.”

He watches the elegant line of Ianto’s throat work as the other man swallows. “Does that line always work?” Ianto asks finally, and it sounds like he’s echoing something he’s said to Jack previously, but Jack, who has replayed memory after memory of their time together in his head through the years until the edges of the picture wore raw, can’t recall it for the lives of him.

“I dunno,” replies Jack, and he shrugs. “But it doesn’t really matter. See, there’s a man who’s waited two thousand years for me. I don’t think he should wait any longer.”

Ianto faces him, eyes shadowed but soft, tears forming at the corners but not flowing. “You found me, Jack,” he says, voice no louder than a whisper.

“No, Ianto.” Jack steps closer, finally daring to bridge the inches between them. He feels the warmth of Ianto’s skin as their hands accidentally brush against each other, and he inhales sharply. “You found me. You were actually looking. I stumbled upon you.” He makes a sudden but gentle move and takes Ianto’s hand in his own, interlacing their fingers. Their hands fit perfectly together, a thought Jack secretly relishes. “And I’m sorry I took so long. I was an idiot.”

The other man snorts goodnaturedly, leaning into Jack’s touch. “I can’t blame you, Jack Harkness. I could never blame you.”

Now that they’re touching, Jack can’t wait much longer. He reaches his free hand to tenderly cradle the back of Ianto’s neck, fingers toying with the short hairs there, and Ianto inhales sharply. Next, Jack ever-so-slowly inches closer until he can brush their noses together. He lowers his head and nuzzles his nose against Ianto who gazes back at him, wide-eyed, bewildered. He can feel Ianto’s breath fanning across his lips; it feels intimate already, an almost kiss. 

Then, finally, he kisses Ianto, softly, slowly, gently, brushing their lips together. It begins chaste and almost reverent, and somehow, despite the passion and two millennia of emotion they pour into it, the kiss stays that way. A moment later, their lips part. Jack leans his forehead against Ianto’s, sighing contentedly.

It feels like a piece of his life that he didn’t even know was missing has clicked resoundingly back into place.

“I love you, Ianto Jones,” Jack tells them.

Ianto chuckles wryly, pulling away slightly. He shakes his head as Jack watches in confusion. “Are we really doing this again?”

“What do you mean,  _ are we really doing this again _ ?” Jack asks, affronted. His brow furrows as he steps back, arms crossed over his chest. “I just told you that I love you.”

“Look,” Ianto replies, trying to rationalize. “Every time we do a dramatic love confession, something goes wrong.” He looks calm, quite unlike the fluttery alarm that’s beginning to build in Jack. “Should we just accept that we’re not built for that and cut our losses?”

“Of course we’re built for that,” insists Jack. “I’m dramatic! Every little bit of me is fucking dramatic.” A beat. “Why don’t you think we can’t have dramatic love confessions? Other couples get to!”

“Other couples haven’t seen each other die several times, Jack!” Ianto snaps, something ugly briefly flaring in his eyes. “Other couples haven’t  _ lost each other over and over again _ !”

_ Oh _ , so that’s what this is about. Great, reunited ten minutes and already launched into their first argument. Jack steadies himself. “You have me now, Ianto. It doesn’t matter anymore; you’re never going to lose me again.” Oddly enough, he thinks that it should be the other way around, Ianto reassuring him. “We have each other.”

“Only  _ after _ two thousand fucking years.” Ianto’s tone is just as fierce as before. Again, more quietly, he repeats, “ _ Two thousand years _ ,  _ Jack _ .  _ Two thousand years _ . I travelled galaxies for you, but you always slipped from my grasp.” Jack steps forward and wraps his arms around Ianto, who quivers in his embrace. “I was  _ so tired.  _ I nearly gave up.”

“But you didn’t,” Jack says soothingly, stroking Ianto’s hair. He can feel the front of his shirt dampening as Ianto begins to silently weep, curling in a bit smaller against his chest. He’s always been surprised at how Ianto manages to do that, considering that they are pretty much the same height. “Just in time too. I saw you leave Cardiff in 5094. I met Gwen. She told me everything.” He keeps himself from lowering his nose into Ianto’s hair, because he knows that if he does, he’ll begin to weep too. Now is not the time; one of them needs to stay comprehensible.

Ianto’s gasping breaths begin to calm as quickly as they began, the tears having struck and vanished quicker than a flash flood. “Good old Gwen Cooper,” he says tiredly.

“Good ol’ Gwen,” agrees Jack. He presses a kiss to Ianto’s hair, then his forehead, and then his lips. “I love you,” he tells Ianto again. “Will you let me?”

“I’ve always loved you,” Ianto says to Jack. “There was never any question about it.” He snorts. “Just chose the worst times to tell you.” Now, he kisses Jack, winding his arms around the other man’s waist to pull him closer.

“We’re the worst,” Jack jokes, smiling softly.

“We really are,” replies Ianto absently, but his mind appears to be somewhere else. Finally: “I have a flat with a bed. Our first time after three thousand years shouldn’t be on sand.”

Jack finds himself chuckling uncontrollably. “And everyone on the team thought  _ I _ was corrupting  _ you _ .”

“You were a horny time-travelling immortal,” Ianto says, reaching between them to fondle Jack’s erection. “I was a horny twenty-something. What did they expect? We corrupted each other.”

“You’re such a romantic, Ianto Jones,” Jack says fondly.

“Shut up,” Ianto tells him, and then reaches over to tug Jack by the hand before they set off down the beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. I have waited five weeks for someone else to read that ending besides me and my best friend. I hope you guys liked it, and I hope I did justice to the 50K wild goose chase this fic has been. 
> 
> Next chapter features happiness, angst, sex, and adventure...so standard janto stuff. And one more familiar face...but I'm not telling who.
> 
> Again, scream at me in the comments about that chapter! And spinoff ideas! I love this verse and wanna explore more of it! Like literally, it could be anything. Even Ianto eating toast. 
> 
> Aaaah, gonna stop rambling now. Anyways, see y'all next Thursday one last time!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Ianto's happily-ever-after starts with a wedding, but immortal life isn't always happy or perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the final chapter of fool me once, fool me twice. It's been quite a ride. This fic started off as a quick birthday present for a friend (thank you, Ainsley) and blossomed into my longest work so far, full of so much angst and indulgence and feeling. It's been a roller coaster ride, a wild goose chase, and frustrating to so many of you (again, I'm sorry), but to those of you who've stuck with me in the last ten weeks, I thank you for your lovely comments and reactions. You don't know how much I looked forward to you as motivation. Wednesday nights have been my favorite night of the week for two months now, and it was because of this fic (and because of Agents of SHIELD, but c'mon, final season and also, I've watched that show since I was thirteen; I'm gonna cry when it's over). 
> 
> To those of you who are gonna binge-read this through, welcome! I hope you've enjoyed this so far. To everyone, I hope the ending is everything you want.
> 
> Without further adieu, here's the final chapter of fool me once, fool me twice. I hope it's everything you want. There's domesticity, there's tragedy, there's angst, there's everything Jack-and-Ianto-related. Enjoy!

**5096**

**Boeshane Peninsula**

**Jack**

The Boeshane sun blazes down unmercilessly on the unfortunate souls outside, but the two men who matter in this story remain curled up together in the spacious bed, protected from the glaring midday light.

The inside of the bedroom is cool but still lit, high-tech shades on the window blocking out the heat but letting in the radiance. It’s rather simple technology, but Ianto appreciates it nonetheless.

“It’s a gorgeous day,” he whispers to Jack. ‘We should get up and go outside.”

“Why bother?” asks Jack, rolling over in the bed, luxuriating in the smooth silk of the sheets against his bare skin. He nuzzles his head into Ianto’s shoulder, peppering kisses on the enticing skin, and feels the warmth of the skin beneath his lips. Ianto squirms slightly before eventually arching into Jack’s touch. “We have no jobs, no work, no Rift, no  _ obligations _ .”

“Because, Jack, it can’t be healthy,” Ianto begins, squirming again when Jack moves his mouth slightly lower, “to stay -  _ oh _ \- cooped up inside all day.” He hisses as Jack nips gently at his collarbone, soothing and laving with his tongue. “ _ Jack _ !” His drawn-out whine falters when Jack’s hand snakes between his legs. “Why do you have to turn everything towards sex?”

Jack lifts his head from Ianto’s chest, his eyes glittering with amusement and - quite clearly - adoration. “You weren’t complaining when I fucked you deep into the mattress last night.” He punctuates his statement with one long stroke of Ianto’s cock, his hand suddenly slick with lubricant, craning his neck to kiss Ianto.

Ianto moans into Jack’s mouth, huffing and sighing as Jack’s hand moves quickly over his cock. “Yeah, but -  _ oh _ , do that again!” His hands fly up to clutch tightly at Jack’s shoulders, his fingers spreading over the day of his neck. If Ianto reaches lower, he’ll find the scratch marks that he left on Jack’s back last night completely healed over. As it is, the colorful bruises that Jack littered on his neck and shoulders last night, and even now, have similarly disappeared. “We need fresh air!”

“Why?” Jack demands, his hand stilling on Ianto’s cock, to which Ianto growls out, “ _ You bastard! _ ” 

“Because…” Ianto fishes fruitlessly for an answer as he thrusts his cock further into Jack’s grip. Finally, he snaps, “ _ It doesn’t fucking matter _ .  _ Just bloody touch me! _ ”

Chuckling, Jack says, “I love arguing with you, Ianto Jones. You always lose with dignity.” He twists his hand around the base of Ianto’s cock, tightening his grip, his other hand slipping to fondle Ianto’s balls briefly. He smirks. 

“Later, I will fuck the  _ dignity _ out of you, Harkness,” Ianto promises Jack, eyes narrowing. His back arches off the mattress, Jack’s eyes feasting on the long lines of his curved neck, head tossed back with pleasure, as he comes all over himself. Then he slumps back onto the bed, panting. 

“Still complaining about the sex?” asks Jack amusedly. He reaches down to stroke his own cock, which is now almost painfully hard. Ianto stares at him, gaze hungry but soft.

“You’ve shown me the error of my ways,” replies Ianto primly. He raises himself onto his elbows and leans over to take Jack’s cock into his mouth, but Jack gently shoves him back into the mattress. Ianto pouts.

“Stop, you sex-fiend.” Jack’s smirk is wide. He knows what he’s robbing himself of - Ianto’s mouth is exceptionally talented, but this moment is too worth it right now. “No giving blowjobs for you.”

Ianto raises a single eyebrow of disbelief. “Fuck you.” 

His smirk widens even more to the point where his lips are stretched painfully. “Did last night, thank you very much.” He pauses. “You promised to fuck me.”

“I take that back.” Ianto shrugs.

Jack sputters, “You can’t just take a promise back.” He rolls his eyes, and then his tone evens out. “Look, I’ll let you give me a blowjob on one condition. You marry me.”

Ianto’s eyebrow rises higher.

Jack sighs. “ _ What _ ?”

A quick shake of Ianto’s head. “Nothing.”

Another sigh. “You clearly have something to say.”

The other man melts into his pillow. “Look, based on our past, based on you being...well,  _ you _ , I’d expected something a little more dramatic.”

“ _ Are you saying no to marrying me _ ?” Jack asks, voice curling into a high-pitched question. He’s a moment away from crossing his arms over his chest and pouting childishly, just like Ianto did not even seconds previous.

“No, no.” Slowly, Ianto sits up against the headboard, stretching his legs out. “I’m not saying no...it’s just...look. Could you at least ask the question properly?”

“I don’t have a ring...that’s not really what we do on Boeshane.” Jack’s shoulders droop. Carefully, he sits on his knees, heart beating quickly in his chest, and faces Ianto, hoping his eyes convey all the depths and shades of his affection for the other man. “Ianto Jones, I love you. I would give the whole of time and space for you. Will you marry me?”

Ianto’s lips curve up into a wry smile. “That’s better.” A moment of brief silence passes, a moment too painful for Jack to wait. Finally, Ianto replies, “Yes. Yes, I will marry you, Jack.” He shrugs helplessly. “I love you too.”

Happiness explodes like sparks of flame in Jack’s heart as he stumbles forward and gently knocks Ianto back to the bed. They snog like teenagers, passionate and messy, before they part for air.

“Can I give you a blowjob now?” Ianto asks.

This time, Jack nods eagerly like he’s the one agreeing to a marriage proposal. “Yes. Yes, you can.”

* * *

**5096**

**Boeshane Peninsula**

**Ianto**

Ianto expects Jack, a lover of dramatics and heavy-handed irony - a much kinder way of saying that the man doesn’t know the definition of subtlety - to want to be married on a planet like Woman Wept or Darillium or perhaps before a dying star. They certainly have the money - Jack’s Torchwood pension stacks up to a lot, and Ianto’s accumulated wealth of his own over the years - as well as the means to travel - Ianto manages to fix Jack’s vortex manipulator with the sonic screwdriver, making Jack very gleefully happy.

Alas, no. To Ianto’s surprise, Jack, who is - despite everything - still a native Boeshane boy - insists on holding the ceremony on the other side of the colony, in a small, weathered white gazebo perched on a craggy cliff. “It’s where my parents were married,” he admits to Ianto shyly. “My parents, my mother’s parents, my father’s parents...it’s a Thane family tradition.” This is one of the few times in Ianto’s long life that he’s seen Jack look bashful.

Who is Ianto to deny Jack this? He was born in Boeshane as Javic Thane, let him be married here too. After all, he’s also spent several years living in Boeshane, and he adores the colony.

“Of course,” he tells Jack, and Jack beams. “We’ll get married wherever you want.”  _ I’ll follow you anywhere you want _ , he doesn’t add, but the sentiment is still there, and they both know it.

They hadn’t discussed anything or invited anyone, nor did Ianto really expect anyone else to be there besides the officiant, but it seems that the natives of Boeshane have other plans and high respect for their Face of Boe. When the day comes, Jack and Ianto stroll hand-in-hand to the white gazebo on the craggy cliff and find themselves a small crowd. Friends, neighbors, old acquaintances of Jack’s, and even strangers have come to watch the Thane boy marry his foreign groom - and the day Jack told Ianto that he, Ianto Jones from Newport, was considered exotically foreign in Boeshane, Ianto had been in stitches. 

They smile at their guests and then climb up onto the gazebo where Auri, their officiant and also an elderly woman who apparently knew Jack’s parents, waits. Tuxedos are not their thing, nor is the traditional Boeshane wedding garb. Instead, they are dressed as they knew each other best. Jack is in a light blue shirt with red braces, grey trousers, and brown boots, clad in his greatcoat - laundered and patched up to the best of Ianto’s ability - despite the Boeshane heat. Ianto, to Jack’s great amusement, is wearing a grey suit with a red shirt and a striped tie, all tailored locally, and Jack knows that underneath the suit jacket is a purplish-black waistcoat. It’s classic Captain Jack Harkness and Ianto Jones, and despite the amused yet bewildered looks they draw from the crowd, Jack and Ianto wouldn’t have it any other way.

Auri clears her throat, speaking in the native language of Boeshane, and Ianto’s the only one who hears it in Welsh-accented twenty-first century English, despite having learned the language. “Welcome, people of Boeshane,” she says, addressing the crowd. “We are here to celebrate a joyous occasion,” - she faces Jack and Ianto who stand before her - “the joining of Javic Piotr Thane with Ianto Jones.”

Jack grins, hands twitching by his side as if he wants to reach out and hold Ianto again. He looks like a little boy being given a slice of his favorite cake.

Ianto, on the other hand, feels a bit more subdued. There is the great happiness and glee, fizzing up inside him like champagne bubbles, but there is also cool sadness. It isn’t his first wedding day - nor is it Jack’s, and he never really dreamt that this would be possible, that he would marry Jack, but on the times that he did, he saw it differently. He saw himself and Jack at Cardiff City Hall, joined by Tosh, Owen, Gwen, and perhaps even Rhys or Martha. A quick ceremony followed by a reception at the St. David’s. Sometimes, in these fantasies, even Rhiannon was there, with Johnny and the kids. 

And now, the day he never really dreamt possible is here, and despite his happiness, he mourns for his friends and family who can’t be here, for Tosh and Owen and Gwen who loved him and Jack beyond belief. 

He barely manages to keep the tears at bay, but Jack notices his expression and nods; he understands what Ianto is feeling. The Torchwood Three team had been the first one he’d ever personally put together and led; they had been special. They had been his family. And they should have been here.

Auri continues, “Javic is a Boeshane boy, and Ianto is originally of Cardiff, Wales on Earth. Accordingly, they will be married in the traditional Boeshane handfasting and will additionally, as done by our human ancestors on Earth, exchange rings.” She pulls from her pocket two long lengths of fabric. One is the closest shade they could get to Jack’s greatcoat, the other is Ianto’s favorite shade of red woven around a faded patch from his favorite tie, and both are corded with gold.

(And when Jack had confessed that he’d held on to a scrap of Ianto’s favorite tie for three thousand years, Ianto’s eyes had unexpectedly glistened with tears before he’d lunged forward to snog Jack breathless.)

She gestures for Jack and Ianto to interlock hands with each other, bringing both their wrists together. “We will begin with Javic’s cord,” she says, winding the blue fabric around their clasped forearms as tightly as she can. “Javic, have you anything to say to your future husband?”

Jack’s blue eyes are oceans, glimmering with the waters of unshed tears. “Ianto Jones,” he begins, lips curving into a loose smile, “I nearly gave you my heart when you gave me a pteranodon.” They’ve already decided to keep their vows short and sweet to keep from confusing...well, everyone else. “But it wasn’t until you were dying in my arms that I realized you already had it. You’d taken my heart from me, gotten me to love you, without either of us knowing. I don’t know what I would do without you.”  _ I can’t believe I spent three thousand years without you _ , Ianto knows he means. Jack sniffles. “I love you, Ianto Jones, and want an eternity with you.”

Ianto swallows down the lump in his throat, unable to keep the tears at bay any longer. They flow silently down his cheeks, blurring his vision and matching Jack’s own teary-eyed expression. He also sniffles.

Auri dabs a handkerchief at her eyes, smiling brightly at them. “Now, for Ianto.” She winds the red fabric along their hands, knotting it with Jack’s blue fabric at their wrists. “Ianto, have you anything to say to Javic?”

“Jack,” Ianto says before catching and correcting himself. “Javic Thane, you are an extraordinary man who fell for an ordinary Welshman.”  _ Jack Harkness _ , he thinks _ , I love you despite our odds _ . “As you said, I didn’t realize I loved you until it was too late, but…”  _ Fuck _ , this is why Ianto doesn’t give speeches; he is a man of few but powerful words. “Now, we have all the time in the universe, and there’s no one else I would rather spend eternity with.” Finally: “I love you.”

“I now pronounce you husband and husband,” says Auri. “Before you may kiss each other, we have one last ceremony.” She pulls the ring box from her pocket and cracks it open to reveal two shiny rings made of a tungsten-like metal. They are rather unremarkable, but only Jack and Ianto know about how each ring has  _ IJ+JH  _ etched inside.

Somehow, despite their bound hands, Jack manages to lift Ianto’s ring and poises it at the tip of Ianto’s ring finger. “With this ring,” he says, eyes sparkling with mischievous happiness, “I thee wed.” He slides the ring completely onto Ianto’s finger, where it fits snugly like it belongs there.

Barely masking his own amused eye roll, Ianto lifts Jack’s ring. He smiles at Auri before facing Jack. “With this ring,” he tells Jack, “I thee wed.” He slides the ring onto Jack’s finger, and Jack beams.

“You may now kiss,” Auri tells them, and she, and everyone else in the crowd, watch in amusement as Jack and Ianto end up chest-to-chest, their arms trapped awkwardly between them, and snogging deeply. 

Later in the night, they will have a private ceremony on the beach with just the two of them that will end in Jack dipping Ianto like a dancer before capturing his lips, the moonlight reflected brightly on the dark ocean waves. Much, much, _much_ _later_ , they will recreate the ceremony in Cardiff for Gwen who will squeal and cry. But for right now, it’s just Ianto, Jack, and half of the Boeshane Peninsula, which is perfect nonetheless.

* * *

**6007**

**Boeshane Peninsula**

**Jack**

The little girl, light hair pulled into pigtails, dashes forward into the waves, shrieking with excitement. Her toddler brother, dark hair gleaming under the sun, waddles after her, babbling; he watches his sister play tag with the tides.

“Careful, Rhosyn,” calls Ianto with narrowed eyes from where he stands a bit further away on the sand dune. “Watch out for your brother.” A moment later: “Franklin, hold on to your sister.” With a huff, he sits down onto the blanket, leaning into a chuckling Jack’s side. “My children never listen to me. Why do they never listen to me?” He sighs. “Even Huw listened to Ariadne more than he did to me.” Ianto’s complaining falls on deaf ears as his husband is too busy gazing adoringly at him to listen. “ _ Jack _ .”

Jack shakes himself back to attention. “Look,” he begins gently, “they’re Boeshane children. They’re Thanes and Harknesses, and they need to know how to swim. This is how Gray and I learned anyway.” He tilts his head consideringly. “Besides, Melissa stopped listening to me eventually too.”

“They’re also Joneses,” Ianto argues back, head tucked against Jack’s shoulder, “and Welsh. We weren’t made for the sun.”

His husband prods him gently. “And you’ve lived on Boeshane for more than a decade now, so I don’t know what point you’re trying to make.” When Ianto scowls, Jack only chuckles more and steals a kiss from him.

Jack and Ianto hadn’t planned on having kids - they hadn't even thought that kids were in the cards for them, but when Jack fell pregnant the first time, they were too lovestruck to think otherwise. The moment he’d seen the little tufts of blonde on Rhosyn’s head, Jack had insisted on naming her after his beloved Rose, but Ianto had wheedled until Rose had turned into something a bit more Welsh but still similar enough.

With their second, this birth actually planned, Ianto had seen the carbon copy of Jack and knew that he had hit a lost cause, and when Jack tearfully suggested naming their son after his father, Ianto had agreed. He knew how much Jack’s father meant to him.

Ianto’s own influence on their names came with Rhosyn and Franklin being Harkness-Joneses rather than Thanes, Harknesses, or - much worse - simply Joneses. 

They sit there, on the beach, in silence, heads nestled together, hands linked, as they watch their children splash and play in the water, Ianto calling out more stern warnings when necessary. Once, even Jack is forced to march Franklin away from the water when he ventures too close, but the troublesome toddler lifts himself up from the blanket and wobbles forward to his sister again. Jack admits defeat with a heavy sigh.

“Fine,” he tells Ianto, his husband cackling, “you were right. They don’t listen.”

Eventually, the sky darkens, and they pack up their blanket, preparing to leave. Jack calls for their children to return to their side. Ianto tucks the folded blanket under his arm. When Franklin wanders close, he quickly swoops him up and tucks him in one arm. The toddler wears a heartbroken expression for just a moment before leaning into his father’s side.

Rhosyn is a bit harder to wrangle. “Papa, Papa,” she cries, weaving circles around Jack’s legs. “Carry me on your back.”

“Rhosyn,” Jack groans comically. “Your papa is old. I’m going to break my back if you keep climbing onto me.”

“That’s not what you were saying last night,” Ianto murmurs, ensuring that Franklin’s attention is preoccupied with reaching for the blanket, and earns a sharp elbow and hasty glare from Jack. Finally, Jack is worn down and kneels for Rhosyn to clamber onto his back. With her bony arms wrapped around his neck, she grins like a cat with cream.

The little family sets off down the beach, heading to their modest bungalow nearby. The fathers walk hand-in-hand, their arms wrapped around their children. The daughter peers over her older father’s shoulder. The toddler son snores against his other father’s neck.

It’s a simple domestic life, no aliens to defeat, no time-travellers to aid, but Jack and Ianto are happy.

* * *

**6029**

**Boeshane Peninsula**

**Ianto**

It’s the same white gazebo on the craggy cliff, overlooking the sparkling sea, where Jack and Ianto were married. This time, there’s a different officiant standing before a statuesque blonde and a dark-skinned brunette. “Do you, Rhosyn Harkness-Jones, take Eulalia…?”

The babbling baby in Ianto’s lap pulls his attention away from his eldest daughter’s wedding vows. He bounces Gwyneth, named after their beloved Gwen, slightly, stroking the soft, downy fluff on her head. “Quiet, sweetheart,” he murmurs to her. “Your sister is getting married.”

Jack, standing behind Rhosyn on the gazebo because he doesn’t have a baby to watch, catches his eye and beams.  _ I love you _ , he mouths to Ianto.

_ I love you _ ,  _ too _ , Ianto mouths back, tugging Gwyneth a little higher on his lap. She coos softly, sticking her fingers in her mouth. “No, Gwennie, no.” He sighs, gently extracting her saliva-coated fingers and gingerly wiping them on a handkerchief. He smooths down her floaty white dress, a smaller version of her older sister’s gown; Rhosyn had insisted on going full-Earth traditional based on Ianto’s stories of the few weddings he’d actually attended. “We don’t stick our fingers in our mouth.”

Gwyneth giggles, and affection for his daughter, and for his husband, tugs Ianto’s lips into a broad smile.

Later, when Rhosyn dances with her bride under the white tent set up on the beach, Ianto takes his husband by the hand, their youngest daughter handed off to Franklin and his girlfriend, and leads him to the dance floor in a parallel of their first dance at Gwen’s wedding.

“This seems familiar,” Jack jokes as they sway in time to the music, Ianto’s arm wrapped around his waist, their fingers tangled together. They’ve danced many times before in the last few decades, but this is the first time they’ve danced together at a wedding in three thousand years.

“Well,” Ianto replies as they shuffle in a circle, “last time, you had alien blood on your collar.” He hums. “It was a bitch to clean. The dry cleaner hated me.”

Jack cranes his neck forward, pressing his lips to Ianto’s. Their mouths move against each other briefly, warm and soft and chaste. “As I did last time, I have a beautiful man in my arms.” He swivels in Ianto’s grip, bumping their heads together gently. “Or well, or a beautiful man has arms around me.” He smiles. “And we have a beautiful bride and a Gwen of our own.”

“Gwen would have loved Gwyneth,” Ianto says, his hand warm where it’s clutched against Jack’s. “And Franklin and Rhosyn.”

“Tosh would have loved Franklin,” Jack adds. “Smartest engineer in the Boeshane Peninsula, but all he wants to do is recreate what his Aunt Toshiko did.” 

As the music ends, Jack and Ianto shuffle off the dance floor and return to their seats. Jack takes Gwyneth from her brother. “Thanks, Franklin,” he tells their only son.

Franklin, a miniature version of Jack with Ianto’s blue eyes and cheekbones, nods, taking his girlfriend by the hand and leading her to dance. “Anytime, Papa.”

“I wish any of our team could have seen our kids,” Jack says, just a hint of sadness tugging at his expression. “I saw Anwen and Evan grow up. I was there for August’s wedding.”

“Time wasn’t on Torchwood Three’s side,” Ianto reminds him.

Jack snorts. “Well, time’s a bitch.” He rolls his eyes at Ianto’s glare, bouncing Gwyneth in his lap. “She’s a baby. She’s not going to be ruined if she hears me swear a few times.” He smirks. “No more than the number of times Rhosyn walked in on us at least. She turned out okay.”

Ianto flushes brightly and ducks his head, not bothering to reply.

Their children grew up on stories of Torchwood, of Jack’s past, of Ianto’s past, so they know about their parents’ immortality. Although they may not necessarily understand it and the fact that their fathers will eventually appear younger than them unnerves Franklin extremely, they are generally accepting. The Boeshane community also knows that something is different with Javic Thane and his husband, both men exactly the same as they were when they were married, but they question it not, too enamoured with Jack and Ianto.

“Papa, Tad,” Rhosyn says as she comes rushing up to them, her features radiant with her happiness. Eulalia waits behind her. “Come cut the cake with us.”

“Our daughter calls,” Jack says to Ianto, smiling. He cuddles Gwyneth closer and waves Franklin over. “We may have lost one family, but we still have another.”

And so, the Harkness-Jones clan gathers around to celebrate their eldest daughter’s wedding, the two immortal fathers happier than the odds would ever have suggested.

* * *

**6159**

**Boeshane Peninsula**

**Jack**

But happiness is fleeting.

“No more children,” Jack says to Ianto as they stand before Gwyneth’s funeral pyre, the flames crackling. The grey clouds in the sky matches the men’s somber mood. “No more children. I can’t keep doing this anymore.” The tears have long-since dried on his cheeks, and his tone matches the chill of the beach.

“She lived a long life,” Ianto reminds his husband tiredly. He doesn’t bother raising a hand to wipe the tears streaming down his face. “They all did.” He sighs. “Gwyneth married, she had children, and she will forever be remembered as one of the most powerful leaders of the Boeshane Peninsula. We should celebrate that.”

“I mean it, Ianto.” Jack turns to the other man, his expression stricken. “I can’t keep…” His voice cracks with grief, becoming reedy and thin. “ _ I can’t keep doing this anymore _ ,  _ Ianto _ ,” he gasps, heart  _ aching _ beyond belief. The hurt and sorrow overwhelms him. He hasn’t felt this bad in centuries; losing a child is always hard. “I can’t keep  _ losing  _ them.” He inhales sharply, bowing his head. “ _ They were ours _ !”

“They were ours,” Ianto agrees numbly, wrapping an arm around Jack’s waist. 

_ But everything has its time _ , says a voice in Jack’s head, a voice that sounds suspiciously like River Song. He hasn’t thought about her in such a long time.

“Jack,” Ianto begins slowly, heartbrokenly, “we can’t do that to them, ignore them just because one day they’ll leave us, because one day they’ll be taken from us.” He sniffles, gazing into the hypnotic flames. “That’s not fair to any of our children, not fair to the memory of Rhosyn and Franklin and Gwyneth.” He doesn’t add that it’s not fair to Marta or Wynne, their ten-year-olds, either, that Marta and Wynne deserve present and caring fathers, but he doesn’t need to.

“I don’t care,” replies Jack, knowing he sounds childish and stubborn. He doesn’t care. His entire self  _ hurts _ . “No more children, Ianto.”

Finally:

“No more kids,” echoes Ianto, voice hollow. He sounds defeated, looks defeated, all the fire extinguished in his eyes. Instead, it’s before them, burning their daughter to ash. “We focus on Marta and Wynne, and when they move away, no more kids.”

* * *

**6267**

**Boeshane Peninsula**

**Ianto**

When Wynne dies young from a sickness that even his advanced fifty-first century genes and all the medical technology in the nearby galaxy couldn’t fight, Ianto blames the incompatibility of his twenty-first genes with Jack’s. It’s the first time he’s ever been grateful for Jack’s ultimatum about having more children. 

But when Marta dies a few years later, barely a decade older than Jack, several light-years from Boeshane and her fathers, fighting on behalf of the Church of the Papal Mainframe despite her fathers’ cautions, Ianto realizes that it isn’t his genes. It’s time. Time is their enemy. Time loves Jack and Ianto, but time cannot allow them to remain happy for long.

When Marta dies, the site of their modest bungalow on the Boeshane Peninsula, where they have lived for two centuries, fills Ianto with a blinding sadness. Their home is empty, empty of all the children, spouses, grandchildren, and friends who filled it. They lived and loved on the Boeshane Peninsula, and they have seen too many die.

It may have been Jack’s original home, it may have been their second home after Cardiff, but they decide to leave. They will be back in the future, this Ianto knows, but for now, their time on the Boeshane Peninsula is over.

Slowly, Jack and Ianto pack up their home. They take no furniture, nothing they can’t carry. All pictures and drawings are saved on their vortex manipulators. They pick their most prized possessions. Ianto adds Rhosyn’s wedding ring to his collection, alongside Huw’s and Ariadne’s. They have Marta’s officer epaulettes, a statuette Wynne sculpted for them, a quilt patched together by Gwyneth, an award won by Franklin. Jack carries their wedding cords and some Thane family heirlooms he recovered from little curios around the colony - a locket his mother wore, a small crystal carving from one of his grandfathers, and a silk scarf that belonged to his father.

Two hundred years, five children, and a loving home, all reduced to two men with matching wedding rings and rucksacks.

“To the stars?” Jack asks, gazing at Ianto forlornly.

“To the stars,” Ianto agrees, and together, they place their hands on Ianto’s vortex manipulator and disappear from the Boeshane Peninsula in a flash of golden light.

* * *

**Unknown year**

**Unknown planet**

**Jack**

Boeshane is a distant memory for Jack and Ianto when they stumble out of the woods, a dangerous three-horned alien with claws hissing at their ankles, and find a gorgeous blue police box parked next to a scrubby bush, one petite blond Time Lord leaning beside it.

The Doctor frantically straightens up when she sees the two immortals running for their lives and the alien chases them. “Into the TARDIS, boys,” she orders, holding the doors open. 

Jack doesn’t stop running until he passes the TARDIS, tugging Ianto alongside with him, and the Doctor moves to barricade the doors behind them. “Doctor,” he gasps, hands on his knees, doubled over. “What are you doing here?”

“Not the time, Captain,” she warns in her thick Northern accent, eyes wide, coat flapping behind her as she bursts into motion, lifting levers and turning knobs on the TARDIS console. “C’mon, girl.” She strokes a bit of the console, Ianto watching in alarm. 

The alien collides with the TARDIS, and Jack flinches as the sound echoes, but it’s not a moment later as the ship dematerializes with its familiar wheezing groan. Barely a few minutes later, the TARDIS rematerializes with a soft  _ thud _ .

Finally safe, Jack takes a moment to glance around the TARDIS. He hasn’t been inside in a millennium, not since the Scottish Doctor, and although the crystalline features and the blue lighting is different, he likes it nonetheless. When he spots Ianto glancing around with a stunned expression, he realizes that it’s the first time he’s been inside the TARDIS and gently nudges his husband, smiling.

It’s at that point that the Doctor turns to Jack and Ianto, beaming. “Pleasure to see you, Captain, Mr. Jones.” She nods to Ianto excitedly. “So what do you think about the TARDIS, Mr. Jones?” She’s clearly angling for another “bigger on the inside.”

“It’s…” Ianto slowly shuffles around in a circle. “The level of transdimensional engineering it must have taken to construct this ship must have been astounding.”

The Doctor gapes at Ianto briefly before she nods, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, and faces Jack.

“Ianto is one of a kind,” Jack tells her, beaming.

“No wonder you fell for him,” mutters the Doctor to herself. “Now!” She perks up, rubbing her hands together. “We’re currently in fourteenth century France, but where would you two boys like to go?”

“Hold on, Doctor,” Ianto protests. “We haven’t even had a formal introduction, and you just saved our lives. How did you even know where to find us?”

She waves his questions off. “There will be time for answers later, Mr. Jones, but tell me this now. Would you like to travel with me?”

There is hope blooming like warmth in Jack’s chest. He hadn’t been entirely truthful when he’d told the Doctor that he hadn’t been built for that life anymore. He exchanges looks with Ianto, and there is only one clear answer.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooh, I hope that ending satisfied you. You don't know how long I've been holding on to some of these scenes. I needed to show them to somebody, and now, you've seen them!
> 
> Of course, immortality for Jack and Ianto wasn't going to be without tragedy, but they have each other, and hopefully, that is enough. I love Jack Harkness and Ianto Jones so much, and I'm so proud of this fic. I dunno what I'm gonna do without anymore. 
> 
> But don't worry! I'm not done with this 'verse yet! I have a few spinoff ideas in the works, although they won't be written for a few weeks; I have to pass my discrete maths class first! We've got Jack angst, River/Doctor angst, and a few more, but I promise not everything's angst. And if there's anything you want to see specifically, let me know in the comments! Future adventures of Ianto and Jack, individual stories set in their time apart, more Doctor encounters or adventures, their time with any of their kids - Rhosyn, Franklin, Gwyneth, Marta, or Wynne, them in certain Big Finish adventures..anything goes!
> 
> And I also have a few shorter fics in between while you're waiting for fool me once, fool me twice related works. There's a sick fic with hurt and comfort coming up. I should have something posted for my birthday in two weeks which will probably be sure angsty! I'm hoping for something James Bond-related for Ianto's birthday. So many ideas, so little time. I have a problem.
> 
> Finally, thanks to all the folks who supported this fic for the last few weeks. You know who you are!
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/rajkumarinik). I tweet and reblog mostly Torchwood with occasionally amusing commentary on nonsense.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/rajkumarinik) to let me know how much you liked this fic or request a prompt. Also, please comment or drop a line below even if it's to telling me how you've been doing. I thrive on kudos and social interaction, especially in this day and age.


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